Tales of Scotland Yard
by bemj11
Summary: Stories of the men that Sherlock Holmes often worked with, frequently insulted, and rarely praised.
1. Chapter 1

"It's influenza." I announced. I was not ready for the reaction of Gregson's fellow Yarders as I confirmed his illness.

"Aw, come on!" Bradstreet all but roared. Jones let out a growl.

"Gregson!" It was almost a whine that was coming from Hopkins lips.

Gregson looked absolutely miserable as his fellow Inspectors reacted with annoyance and outrage. Hopkins had thrown his hands in the air, and Jones had buried his head in his hands. Bradstreet looked as if he were considering murder.

Lestrade was sighing, and quickly scribbling a note on a piece of paper. "It's not his fault." He reminded the others absently and he leaned out the door to have someone carry the note to its proper destination. "He didn't know."

"How could he not know?" Bradstreet demanded. "He admitted just now he'd been sick in his stomach half the night. He knows the symptoms as well as anyone else."

Hopkins looked as if he had lost his best friend. "And he's been all over us today, chances are we've all picked it up already." He pointed out mournfully.

I paled. The last thing the Yard needed was a handful of Inspectors sick with influenza. Especially this handful.

Jones growled. "And don't pretend your wife isn't going to mind you going home and risking making the kids sick, either." He challeged the calm Inspector.

Lestrade shrugged. "The kids already have it." He said. "My wife threw me out of the house two days ago."

"Great," Bradstreet complained, "then you've probably been walking around exposing us to it too."

Lestrade shook his head. "I hadn't been home since the night before the first came down with it." He replied impatiently. "Gregson and I were doing some research."

Ordinarily, such a statement would have led to an uproar and a demand for clarification. In the face of the current calamity, the Inspectors let it slide.

"So you were probably with him when he came down with it." Jones accused. "Which is just as bad. Have _you_ been sick to your stomach?"

Lestrade met Jones' accusing glare evenly. "I was throwing up half the night, yes." He admitted. "But I doubt very much Gregson could be blamed." He turned to Gregson. "What did you get into after we finished that case?"

"A pint." Gregson snapped. "I was hoping to pass out and not have to think about it, but my wife dragged me out to help her do some charity work."

"With the poor?" I asked. Gregson nodded. "_That _was probably what did it." A lot of people who did charity were catching the disease from the people they worked with.

Bradstreet was still grumbling. "But you were up half the night, Gregson. And it's been going around. How could you not think-"

"I thought the day's events were getting to me." Gregson snapped. "I didn't occur to me that it would be influenza."

"What kind of case," Hopkins wanted to know, "would leave _you_ sick half the night? Or Lestrade, for that matter?"

Both men shuddered. "We were chasing vampires." Gregson finally gave in. "An alleged coven of vampires!"

Bradstreet snorted. "Are you serious? Somebody sent you two chasing vampires?"

"They _were_ vampires." Gregson insisted, horror in his eyes. "Blood-drinkers, anyway. I doubt even Holmes would've stood up to the sight."

"Which reminds me," Lestrade cut in, his voice strained, "stay away from that bunch in the cells. Don't even get within arm's reach."

They were starting to get concerned looks from the others when a constable entered the room, followed by a woman who I quickly recognized as Lestrade's wife. "Got your message." She informed him, offering him a bottle of _something_. "If you do get sick, come home when you get off duty." He nodded, and thanked her, and she was gone.

"Is that what I think it is?" Hopkins was eyeing the bottle, half wary and half hopeful. Lestrade nodded. Bradstreet muffled an oath.

"_That_ has to be the most repulsive stuff I've ever been subjected to." He declared. "I'll get some cups."

Jones shrugged. "We're almost off duty anyway." He said philosophically.

I was afraid to ask. "Er-what is in that bottle, Lestrade?" The man in question shrugged.

Hopkins tried not to laugh. "Nobody _wants _to know what half the stuff the Inspector's wife uses is." He informed me. "All we know is that Lestrade was the only one who made it through last winter without getting even so much as a cough."

Gregson mutely nodded in affirmation as Bradstreet returned and passed out the cups. "Will you be joining us, Doctor?" He asked.

"Better not, if you have other people to see to today." Lestrade warned.

"I'd better decline then." I said with some relief. "But thanks for the offer."

"He just wants you to share the misery." Jones informed me as Lestrade poured out the contents of the bottle into the Inspectors' cups.

They downed the mixture, whatever it was, swiftly. Hopkins immediately set to spluttering and coughing while Jones and Bradstreet gagged and Gregson fought to keep his down. Lestrade merely watched them suffer as he poured out his own measure-

And downed it without so much as blinking. He also took a second cup before offering me the rest of the bottle.

"For your curiosity." He offered. "But _I_ don't want to know anything about it."

I accepted the bottle reluctantly, and caught a whiff of the Inspector's breath. I nearly staggered where I stood. "Thank you." I managed.

"You could give Holmes some," Gregson suggested hopefully, " wouldn't want him to get sick."

Bradstreet snorted. "Right." After a moment, "Are we staying here, or hiding somewhere where they're less likely to try to call us on duty while we're out of our skulls?" He wanted to know. His mood was already improving.

"_I_'_m_ going home." Gregson informed them. "I don't care what you lot do."

"Unless we went with you." Bradstreet suggested. "Then you'd probably care."

Gregson's eyes widened. "You lot are _not_ coming home with me." He all but snarled.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and all involved does not belong to me.


	2. Chapter 2

Hopkins hesitated outside the door, debating.

On the one hand, it was not likely he would gain anything by knocking. Except maybe Lestrade's ire. Certainly not a contribution.

On the other hand, Bradstreet had said to talk to _every _Inspector. And he had emphasized the word _every_, as if he had already known then what Hopkins would be going through now.

"Either come in or go away, but don't just stand there." The summons was enough to make Hopkins jump guiltily. He opened the door and stepped inside.

Lestrade was working. He was always working when in his office. He was always working anyway. Even when he was supposed to be off duty, chances were he was working.

Hopkins swallowed nervously, and Lestrade looked up. "May I help you?" He asked.

Hopkins swallowed again. "We're taking up a collection." He began. Lestrade's eyebrows went up.

"Oh?" He was waiting for more information.

"Well, everyone knows it's hard raising a family on our pay." Why was he terrified? It wasn't as if Lestrade was going to murder him or anything. Maybe refuse to help out, maybe even be irritated, but that would be the most of it. So why did Hopkins feel as if he were challenging Sherlock Holmes to a battle of wits?

Lestrade was still waiting. He had even been polite enough to put down his papers and give Hopkins his full attention. Hopkins licked his lips and continued.

"And well, it's hard when you first start out, especially if you actually want to make any sort of deal about the whole getting married thing." Lestrade didn't ask why Hopkins, who was still very single, was telling this to a man who a wife had three children of his own. He simply waited.

Hopkins resisted the urge to mumble 'nevermind' and make a break for the door. _Just say it._ "Bradstreet and some of the others had this idea that if everyone could chip in a bit, it might make things just a little bit easier on those starting out, so we're taking up a collection…" Hopkins hesitated only a second, "for Gregson and his bride-to-be."

Hopkins gaped as Lestrade reached into his pocket and pulled out a small handful of coins. He stared as the man counted it out, considered for a moment, and stuffed it back into his pocket before going for his wallet and pulling out a one pound note.

Hopkins almost didn't remember to accept it and add it to the hat. "Thank you." He managed to stammer as he began backing for the door. Lestrade simply nodded and went back to his work.

It was only after Hopkins was gone that Lestrade allowed himself to smile, and allowed his thoughts to drift back to his own marriage.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and his world do not belong to me.


	3. Chapter 3

"Here he comes, poor fellow." Bradstreet muttered. "What a way to spend your birthday."

Jones agreed. "Hauled out of bed at four in the mourning is a bad enough start."

"Never mind being chewed out by the infamous Mrs. Rogers for ruining her flowerbed when that thief tackled him and tried to knife him." Bradstreet added.

"He got called out to rescue some old lady's cat, too. He was rewarded with more than a few scratches." Jones reminded the other man. "And some hassled mother tried to use him to convince her children that if they kept skipping school he was going to come after them and throw them in jail, and the kids were terrified. They actually took one look at him and started bawling."

Bradstreet sighed. "And whatever this last incident was, he'll be lucky not to get shouted at for tracking mud home."

They fell silent as Hopkins approached, a weary expression on his face. Birthdays were not supposed to be like this. Granted, the world still went on, but there was supposed to be _something_ nice about one's birthday.

"Rough day?" Bradstreet sympathized.

"The world doesn't stop just because we have other ideas for the day." Jones reminded him.

"I know." The lad said. "But still, I was hoping…" He trailed off as Gregson peeked his head into the room.

"Hopkins!" The other Inspector shouted, and the poor man flinched. "In my office, now!"

Hopkins stifled a sigh and wondered what he had done wrong. He didn't notice, as he headed for the man's office, that Bradstreet and Jones were following him.

Lestrade was there, in Gregson's office, too. Hopkins' heart sank into his stomach. He was in serious trouble.

Gregson waved him to a seat. The fact that he had done so while Lestrade was still standing was not a good sign.

He waited while the two older Inspectors looked him over, trying to be nervous but by this time too busy feeling sorry for himself to really do it any justice.

Lestrade finally went for Gregson's teapot. "You look like you could use a drink." He offered the younger Inspector a cup, and Hopkins reluctantly accepted it and took a sip.

It was surprisingly light and had an unusual spicy flavor that Hopkins was not familiar with. He looked up in surprise.

Lestrade was smiling. Hopkins tried to remember if the Inspector usually smiled without it meaning ill for someone, but gave up when Gregson cleared his throat, demanding the lad's attention.

"Somebody left you a package." The way he said it, Hopkins was certain it was not quite the whole truth, but he looked toward the box sitting on Gregson's desk. When he didn't react quickly enough, Gregson sighed impatiently. "Go on, open it."

Hopkins set aside his cup and stood to untie the ribbon on top of the box. He wondered if he really wanted to open a package from an unidentified person in front of Gregson and Lestrade. He took the lid off, and gasped.

Inside the box sat a cake.

"Happy birthday." Bradstreet's cheerful wish about made Hopkins jump out of his skin. The lad looked from Gregson to each of the others and back to the cake.

"How?" He tried to think of something intelligent to say.

Jones laughed. "The rest of the world may forget, lad, but we don't." His expression became a little more serious. "And we know the rest of the world doesn't take a day off just because of something as trivial as a birthday or an anniversary."

Jones had spent his anniversary in the hospital with a stab wound. They all had been through similar experiences.

Hopkins' eyes were stinging as he looked back at the cake. "Thanks." He said.

Gregson rolled his eyes. "Cut the cake already, lad."

Someone found a knife, and they passed around the tea, and all in all, the impromptu birthday party was one of the better ones Hopkins had experienced. It almost, he decided, made the rest of the day worth it just to see Bradstreet trying to convince Lestrade to wear one of the comical paper hats he was folding out of the newspapers.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	4. Chapter 4

Five men sat around a table. Not one of them spoke.

They ate the food that was placed in front of them with the air of one who didn't really care _what_ he was eating, so long as he was eating _something_.

They didn't bother discussing the day. Every one of them knew it had been a disaster from the start. They didn't need to discuss it to offer each other sympathy and understanding and the sense that none of them were alone in this.

Some days they didn't need to say a word.

No one laughed when Hopkins nearly fell asleep in his dinner, and nobody reacted when Gregson's arm started bleeding again and Lestrade had to bind it back up. Nobody flinched at the swearing that came from the former when it happened either, though it was strong enough language to shock the group of old sailors at the next table.

Nobody needed to ask why Jones was methodically shredding a newspaper, nor did they need to ask why Bradstreet was steadily consuming vast amounts of alcohol.

And just as they didn't need to discuss the day, they didn't have to speak aloud words of sympathy, or encouragement, or understanding. They all knew, and they all understood.

They had all been through it today.

And on days like this, the knowledge that they weren't alone was enough.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	5. Chapter 5

Bradstreet regarded the horrified and panicking young man with amusement. "Well, nobody _wants_ to go, Hopkins, but we wouldn't want such fine people to think we aren't _grateful_."

"But to invite us to a social gathering?" Hopkins insisted. "With dinner, and dancing, and all that?"

"They think they're doing us a favor." Jones put in. "Just think of it as a free meal and a chance to dance with some of the young ladies of upper society." Having given his advice, the Inspector moved on.

Hopkins glared at his retreating back, then turned back to Bradstreet. "Will they expect us to dance?" He asked, his eyes suddenly wide.

Bradstreet laughed. "We'll be expected to dance with the young ladies, yes. We'll even be considered the safe dancing partners, so we'll probably end up dancing most of the night. Wish _I_ had the excuse of being married." He grumbled good naturedly. Gregson, Lestrade, and Jones would be taking their wives with them.

Hopkins looked even more alarmed than he had before. "And we _have_ to go?" He asked without much hope.

Bradstreet nodded. "Every member of the Yard who was involved was invited, and it would be the height of rudeness to refuse." He tried to reassure the lad. "It's not that bad, Hopkins. Just watch your mouth and keep your opinions to yourself, and you'll be fine." He grinned.

"But _dancing-_"

"The dancing will be the fun part, Hopkins. Dinner-"

Here the young man looked absolutely miserable. "But Bradstreet, I _can't dance_."

Bradstreet snorted dismissively. "They won't expect you to do more than the basic steps." He assured the lad, then stopped when Hopkins only managed to look more distraught. Bradstreet stared at the young man in surprise. "You don't know how to dance. At all. You never learned?"

Hopkins shook his head. "We were too busy trying to survive growing up." He admitted.

Bradstreet shook his head. "You'll be expected to dance." He worried.

"What's wrong?" Lestrade had caught their worried expressions, and their muted words, and had come over to be sure there wasn't another serial killer on the loose.

Hopkins flushed, and stammered until Bradstreet took pity on him. "Hopkins is worried about that invitation we all received." He explained. "The boy can't dance."

Lestrade mercifully took the statement to mean that Hopkins couldn't dance at all, saving the poor lad _some_ further embarrassment. He eyed the young man thoughtfully. "He'll have to learn, then." Was his brilliant solution.

Hopkins choked. "But the blasted thing is tomorrow! Who's going to teach me?" He insisted. Bradstreet had to concede that the young man had a point.

Lestrade considered this for a moment, and Hopkins was sure he was doomed to be an embarrassment at the gathering the following night.

Lestrade came to a decision. "Come on, then." He said briskly. "We'll start with the waltz."

It took Hopkins a full minute to recover. It took Bradstreet just a bit longer.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	6. Chapter 6

Author's note: I just couldn't let it go. I'd apologize, but I'm not at all sorry.

* * *

Gregson stopped and stared. "Why is Lestrade dancing with Hopkins?" He finally asked.

Bradstreet laughed at his complete bewilderment. "He's teaching Hopkins how to dance. You know, for the dinner party that's being held in our honor?"

Gregson rolled his eyes. "Don't remind me." But he stopped and joined Bradstreet in watching the two men.

"You have to lead, Hopkins." Lestrade informed the lad patiently, for what felt like the fifth time.

"Sorry, I know, but-"

"Look, Hopkins, your partner isn't going to be able to read your mind. If you want to go to the left, you have to lead her that way. Be firm."

Hopkins reddened. "I know, it's just that-"

Lestrade sighed. "Gregson, get over here."

Gregson scowled. "I am not dancing with him." He informed the smaller Inspector shortly.

"No," Lestrade agreed, "you're dancing with me. Watch, Hopkins."

Gregson sighed, and glared at Lestrade, but came and took the lead. Hopkins watched closely as Gregson led Lestrade into a box-step, then in a step to the side, and from there into a spin, and Lestrade followed flawlessly.

Bradstreet had to leave before he started laughing, especially when Holmes showed up and was completely taken by surprise. The brilliant detective stood there gaping like a fish at the scene before him.

"See?" Lestrade was addressing Hopkins. "The lead _leads_ his partner. You have to let your partner know where you want to go without actually saying, 'I'm going to spin you now.'"

Hopkins nodded as Gregson retreated with a final glare at Lestrade. "I just don't know, Inspector. I mean, I know what you're saying, but I just can't seem to get past the fact that I'm essentially telling you what to do."

Lestrade laughed. "Think of it as being on a case, and I'm stumped, and you know your solution is right." He suggested. "And please don't compare the young ladies you dance with tomorrow to me."

That got a chuckle out of Hopkins. "I'll try not to." He said.

"Ready?" Lestrade asked. Hopkins sighed.

"Not really."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	7. Chapter 7

Author's note: I have a new story, _Close Call_, that I'm starting, involving Inspector Lestrade and Doctor Watson. I also have, in case anyone is interested, a sort of timeline for the _Sherlock Holmes _stories I have written on my profile, since they haven't been written or published in chronological order.

Seriously though, I had to go through with this, see it to the end, etc. I hope it hasn't been too much of a trial for either you readers or the Yarders. Hopefully, this is the last of this nonsense and we can move on to something less embarrassing for some of the poor fellows.

* * *

Gregson spent the dinner glaring at Lestrade when he wasn't busy being elbowed for it by his wife. Tales of them dancing had spread like wildfire through the Yard. People had been laughing behind his back all day. Worse, Lestrade hadn't been there to receive his share of the humiliation.

Lestrade ignored the glares. He was too busy watching to make sure that no one embarrassed himself badly enough that the present company would not simply overlook it out of 'appreciation' for their guests of honor's aid.

He still couldn't believe that someone had been daft enough to have the bright idea of having a special dinner in honor of the men of the Yard. _Every _one of those invited was uncomfortable here, except for possibly his own wife, who refused to care of worry about what those of a higher social standing thought of her.

But the men of the Yard were at their best, if somewhat tired and uncomfortable and nervous. There had been no major gaffs, no serious breaches in etiquette. Most of the Yarders had chosen to keep their mouths shut unless asked a direct question, and then they said only enough to avoid being rude. It was slightly awkward, but bearable.

Gregson would have been able to make up for a considerable amount of this silence, if he hadn't been holding a grudge about being used in a demonstration, and his wife could have helped if she had not been busy keeping him in line. Hopkins was too nervous about the dancing to be of much use in that area, but Lestrade's own wife was managing splendidly.

How she managed to charm her audience into not even batting an eye when she _did_ slip up and reveal that she was of a lower class then they were was beyond Lestrade, but he was greatly appreciative of it, as well as her ability to cut him off before he himself said something inappropriate without so much as uttering a word.

_But where on earth was Bradstreet?_ Their hosts had noticed his absence, and he had barely been able to appease them with the standard explanation that crime did not stop simply because one had somewhere important to be.

But Elisabeth had again come to the rescue by nodding in agreement. "Remember our wedding, Giles?" She had piped up. Upon gaining the attention of the Lady Rockwell, his wife smiled shyly and explained. "He was late, you see. He was called out the night before to help on a case, and was chasing a jewel thief through London while we were preparing for the wedding. I found out later he was lucky to make it at all, if you take my meaning."

Eyes widened as they realized he had nearly been killed the day of his wedding, and the Rockwells were understanding of the fact that Bradstreet might be a little late. He was grateful, if uncomfortable with the dispensing of such information.

But that had been almost half an hour ago, and Lestrade was starting to worry about the other Inspector.

There was a commotion outside of the dining room, and Lestrade instantly feared the worse. Elisabeth followed his gaze and caught on.

Suddenly she looked a bit ill. "Are you quite all right, dear?" Lady Rockwell inquired, and Elisabeth nodded uncertainly.

"I think I just need a bit of air." She confessed. "I hate to be so discourteous as to get up-" She swayed a bit, and their hosts were all concern.

"Why don't you take your lovely little wife out to get some air, Mr. Lestrade?" Thomas Rockwell suggested kindly.

Lestrade nodded. "Thank you, sir." He said, rising and helping his wife to her feet. They made their way into the hall, ignoring the curious and concerned eyes following them.

Bradstreet was in the hall, trying to keep control of his temper. It was a rough case that could leave Bradstreet in such a foul mood, but there he was, trying to explain that he was supposed to be there while the servants glared at his appearance.

He was missing his hat and his coat, and his shirt was torn in several places, and bore stains of blood and who knew what else. His forehead was also bleeding, and he was holding his side.

Lestrade walked into the mess. "You're late!" He barked, and Bradstreet straightened instinctively. "And you're a mess!"

Elisabeth smiled at the now rather lost looking servants, all signs of faintness gone. "Is there someplace we could take him and make him presentable? The Rockwells seemed disappointed when they noticed he hadn't arrived yet."

One of the servants reluctantly nodded, and led them to one of the washrooms in the servants' quarters.

"Wash him up, Giles, and give me his shirt." Elisabeth said quickly. "I can patch up the worst of the tears, but he really needs a jacket to look halfway presentable." Elisabeth always carried a sewing kit with her whenever she went somewhere with her husband these days.

Bradstreet, to his credit, didn't argue with either of them as they hurried to get into some halfway decent state.

Their hasty work complete, Elisabeth looked him over one last time. She sighed, and said what Lestrade didn't.

"You still look a fright." She declared. "Your shirt is a wreck in spite of what I could do, not that it would be fit for such company even if it didn't have a gaping hole in the arm."

Bradstreet colored, a bit. "I'm sorry, Lestrade." He said to the other Inspector. "Everything just went mad all of the sudden."

"I understand." Lestrade assured him wearily. They were still in trouble. Bradstreet would be met with scorn out there for the obvious signs that he had been out doing his job. It wasn't right, but it was the reality of the thing.

"Give him your jacket, dear." Elisabeth said suddenly.

Bradstreet looked down at the smaller man. "It won't fit, will it?" He asked. Lestrade was already shrugging out of it.

"He wears his jackets loose, and a bit long." Elisabeth reassured the man. "It'll be a bit snug, but it will do. And it will cover up the worst of your shirt."

Lestrade handed it over, and Bradstreet was surprised to find that it did, in fact, fit. "Lucky I lost that weight when I was ill last month." He offered, and Lestrade grunted in agreement.

It still felt awkward, and then of course there was the fact that Lestrade would be mixing among the higher ups without a jacket. But they would survive.

They reentered the hall; dinner was finished, and the next phase of the night had begun. Gregson seemed to be enjoying waltzing around with his wife, though Hopkins still looked horrified as he tried to become invisible.

"Go dance with Hopkins, will you?" Lestrade asked his wife. "He needs some confidence."

She nodded, and made her way to the nervous Inspector while Lestrade introduced Bradstreet to their hosts.

"May I have this dance?" She asked, and Hopkins nearly swallowed his tongue. He nodded, his eyes huge, and led her out to the dance floor.

It didn't take long for the young man to relax, or to start enjoying himself. Elisabeth had that effect on people.

He even managed to find another partner after Lestrade showed up and retrieved his wife from the lad.

Bradstreet managed to avoid dancing primarily because he was busy holding a rather large handkerchief to his forehead. It was dark enough in color that the bloodstains on it indicated that he had been injured without being too graphic about it. He had laughed at Jones for it in the past, but now he was considering the advantages to the thing.

One, he was managing not to bleed too much all over the ladies and gentlemen here. Two, he was avoiding dancing while getting looks of admiration for being wounded on the job. These people seemed to admire such devotion, as long as it wasn't presented in too ugly of a manner.

Lady Rockwell had even insisted that he be brought something from the kitchen since he had missed dinner.

He watched Hopkins discover he actually enjoyed dancing with a young lady with a beautiful head of red hair, and was relieved that Gregson had forgotten to still be angry with Lestrade. He chuckled as Jones and _his_ wife danced just as much as was expected, but no more, and then drifted towards the sidelines.

His eye was caught by Lestrade and his wife, who were keeping up with their 'betters' on the dance floor, and apparently enjoying it too. It was pleasant, if impolite, to watch as that mask of duty slowly melted from Lestrade's face and he relaxed and almost smiled.

He was muttering to his wife, Bradstreet realized, and she was replying in a murmur; he doubted either of them would be overheard. Something twinkled in her eyes, and his were dark and full of mischief.

Bradstreet tore his eyes away from the spectacle, and contented himself with the knowledge that tonight had not been all that bad.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	8. Chapter 8

"I think I'm in love." Hopkins sat down next to Bradstreet without being invited, not it actually mattered to Bradstreet. He was probably one of the more easy going of the Inspectors at the Yard.

"Oh?"

"Remember that red-haired girl from the dinner party?" Hopkins asked.

Bradstreet thought for a minute. "You mean the one you spent most of the night dancing with?" He asked.

Hopkins nodded. "That's her. Miss Lucy Barker." He confirmed.

"So you know her name. Have you seen her since the dinner?" Bradstreet asked.

Hopkins flushed. "A few times. We've even talked once or twice."

"Oh." Bradstreet wasn't sure what else to say. "And you think you love her?" Hopkins nodded.

Silence fell, awkward silence. Abruptly Bradstreet realized the younger man was waiting for something. "Are you-er-looking to pursue her, then?" He asked the lad uncertainly.

Hopkins, if possible, flushed even deeper. "I don't know. I thought-"

"To get some advice?" Bradstreet couldn't believe it, but Hopkins nodded. "What on earth are you asking me for? I'm the single one, remember? Jones is married. Gregson is married. _Lestrade_ is married. Ask one of them."

Hopkins was staring at Bradstreet as if he were crazy. "Jones doesn't even like me." He protested.

"Then ask Gregson." Bradstreet suggested.

"Gregson's down with influenza again." Hopkins reminded him.

Bradstreet threw his hands in the air in exasperation. "Then ask Lestrade! He gets along with his wife best out of any of them anyway." He stood and left before he could begin contemplating enacting violence on the lad.

Hopkins stared after Bradstreet's retreating form dejectedly.

_Ask Lestrade._

Hopkins couldn't decide who was crazier, Bradstreet for suggesting it, or he himself for actually considering it.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	9. Chapter 9

"Sir?" Hopkins hurried to catch up with the man before he left for home.

Lestrade paused, waiting. "What is it, Hopkins?"

Belatedly Hopkins realized the other Inspector probably thought the reason Hopkins was stopping him was work related. "Oh, I was just wondering something." Hopkins grimaced at his own wording as Lestrade continued walking.

It was a block later that Hopkins realized Lestrade was waiting for him to say more.

"Well, It's just, there's this girl…" Hopkins broke off, embarrassed. Determined, he tried again. "I think I, you know, love her, maybe."

Lestrade didn't reply, and Hopkins had used of his store of courage for the day. He wondered what he had been thinking, going to Lestrade for advice. He wondered if he were going mad.

"Never mind, sir, it's silly." He said quickly, sorry he had even brought it up.

Lestrade stopped, and turned to study the younger man.

"You were still small when your father died, weren't you?" He finally asked.

"Yes, sir." Hopkins nodded, wondering what that had to do with anything.

"Just Lestrade is fine." The man corrected. "We may call you 'Lad' and 'Boy,' but you aren't, really. Haven't been for some time."

Hopkins remained silent, considering this.

Lestrade was grateful for the silence; he was trying to figure out what to say.

"If you think you care about her, Hopkins, do something about it. If it works out, then you've gained something wonderful. If it doesn't, at least now you know. Either is better than wondering about it for the rest of your life."

Hopkins stared at the other Inspector. He wondered if he were dreaming. "Anything else?" He finally asked.

Lestrade considered. "Yes. A good relationship takes work. It also takes trust, sacrifice, compromise, patience, understanding, forgiveness, and love."

For some reason, Hopkins was surprise, even if he shouldn't have been. It was just strange to hear Lestrade talk about, well-

"Love?" He couldn't stop himself from asking. The man's relationship with his wife always seemed so formal. "Do you love your wife, sir?" He flushed as soon as he said it, and stammered an awkward apology.

Lestrade simply shrugged it off. Then he did the strangest thing He answered the question.

"Yes, I love my wife, Hopkins. I love her dearly."

Hopkins was silent for a few minutes, thinking. "Thanks." He said at last.

Lestrade shrugged uncomfortably. Then he gave the younger man a shove. "Now I am not about to start acting like a father figure, so don't even think about it." He declared.

For a moment Hopkins was completely lost. Then he remembered Sweeney, and Baker, and Smith. All of them had taken Lestrade's usual _welcome to your first night on the beat _lecture and turned the Inspector into some sort of hero. It had nearly driven the man to distraction, and had taken Bradstreet, Jones, and Gregson to get them to lay off Lestrade.

Hopkins wondered if Lestrade were actually old enough to be his father. To be honest, there was no telling with the man.

"Well, anyway, thanks." He finally said. "See you later, si- Lestrade."


	10. Chapter 10

Author's note: I don't really know what the services would have been like back then. I had to draw from my own religious experiences, as far as the structure of the church service is concerned. So, if I make some mistake and have something going on that wouldn't have happened back then, I hope you can forgive me and enjoy this anyway. Also, I like church people, and Christians, and happen to be one myself. So don't think that I'm downing them, please. But it cannot be denied that sometimes we have a tendency to judge people a bit too quickly. Anyway, here you go.

* * *

Reverend Arthur Blackthhorn looked over the congregation to whom he would be speaking today. A sea of faces looked back expectantly, eagerly waiting for the man to deliver his message. The Reverend wondered what their pastor, Andrew Roberts, had told his church to make them so excited. Almost every pew was packed.

Andrew nodded to his old friend and mentor as the choir director stood and led the choir in opening the service.

A straggler came in as the choir began singing, and took a seat at the far end of the very last pew, though it was actually a bench-like apparition that rested against the back wall of the church. Nobody minded the latecomer's arrival; nobody even seemed to

Two more men came straggling in before the song ended, and they too slipped into that last row. Again, nobody paid them any heed.

Andrew led the congregation in a word of prayer. When he had finished, and Blackthorn looked up, a fourth man had taken a seat on the bench.

They were a rough looking bunch, and Blackthorn tried to recall if his fellow minister had ever spoken of having trouble in his congregation. These men certainly looked ready for a fight.

One was missing his coat, another his tie. All four of them looked rather ragged and dirty.

Announcements were made; the congregation stood to sing a hymn. All four of the men in the back stood, though only two actually made an attempt at singing.

The hymn finished, and the congregation was seated, and the choir sang another song. Two more of these rough men slipped in and found a seat, and Blackthorn was puzzled to see that they had left a seat empty between them and the last man to sit down.

Andrew introduced the Reverend, and he began the sermon. A part of his mind, however, was still fascinated by the six men in the back.

They had one old Bible between them, and once the first man had found the passage, he read it and passed it on to those who were interested.

Halfway through the sermon one last of these fellows all but staggered in, and chose to lean against the wall rather than sit in the one empty space left in the pew.

He seemed to be respected by the rest of the bunch; the Bible was offered deferentially to him. A shake of his head declined the offer, and the man crossed his arms across his chest and let his head rest against the wall. His eyes lowered as Blackthorn continued speaking, and he wondered if the man were falling asleep.

He was smaller than the rest, with dark eyes and a sallow, pinched complexion. His clothes were neater than that of his companions, but by much, and there were dark smudges on both his clothing and his person.

The man sitting on the end of the pew closest to the smaller fellow noticed the losing battle the latter seemed to be fighting to stay awake and quietly stood. The dark eyed man accepted the offered seat grudgingly, and the two quickly switched places.

The small man finally nodded off as the Reverend concluded the sermon, and none of his companions were at all interested in waking him.

Andrew closed the sermon with a word of prayer, dismissed the congregation, and Blackthorn lost track of those in the back as the members of the church came to shake his and Andrew's hands before they left.

The group from the back seemed to filter out of their pew as the rest of the congregation dwindled. They joined the line of church members, and suddenly one of them was standing before the two ministers, a large man who looked as if he were built for fighting.

He wiped his hands on his pants before offering one to Andrew, who didn't hesitate for even a second before taking it in his own.

"Glad you could make it, Smith." Andrew said kindly. The large man grinned, revealing a gap that was probably from having a tooth knocked out in a brawl.

"Enjoyed the message, Reverend." He said to Blackthorn as he turned to shake his hand as well.

"Thank you." Blackthorn replied politely.

Next came a lean, wiry young man with a black eye who offered his left hand; his right was wrapped up. "Pleasure hearing you speak, Reverend." He too offered a smile before moving on.

The next two simply nodded to the two pastors before hurrying off. The fifth shook Blackthorn's hand wordlessly, and nodded to Andrews, and suddenly Blackthorn found himself wondering where the other two had gotten off to.

He caught sight of them as Andrew looked up and headed for the back, for they were still where they had been at the end of the service. The smaller was still sitting, but was at least awake now. The other was talking to him in a low voice, and as we drew near, he nodded.

"I'll take care of it." He assured the smaller man. "Bloody-"

He caught sight of us and flinched. Andrew pretended as if he hadn't heard as the man strode towards us with a hand outstretched.

"I know it's been a while." He greeted us cheerfully. "Haven't been able to get off lately."

"Well, we're glad you made it today, Bradstreet." Andrew replied with a gentle laugh.

"Me too, sir." The man said fervently. "Not that your sermons aren't good too, Pastor," He reddened slightly, "but this has been a treat."

Andrew smiled. "Rest assured, lad, I know no insult was meant." He assured the rough looking Bradstreet, and received a smile in return.

"Well, I'll see you when I can, I guess." The man said after a moment.

"God be with you, lad."

"Amen." Came the fervent agreement.

Bradstreet's departure left the two men with one more of this strange bunch to deal with.

"How's Hopkins?" Andrew's voice was low as he addressed this last fellow. "I saw you left his seat empty."

The man looked up; he had been staring at his feet. Dark eyes that were hollow and empty met Andrew's. When he spoke, it was in the voice of a ghost. "I don't know. The Doctor's done what he could, but…" He trailed off and swallowed. "We lost seven men today, Roberts. Seven. Taylor was only a boy; he'd been on the job for a week." He ran a hand through his dark hair. "I told them he wasn't ready."

Andrew was silent for a moment. "I can't tell you anything you don't already know, Giles." He said gently.

The man glared up at him. "Aren't you supposed to have the answer to the world's problems?" He demanded. Then he sighed. "I'm sorry. I know better than that."

"Yes, you do." Andrew agreed quietly.

"I don't know what it's worth," the man said after a moment, "but would you pray for the lad?"

"Of course. God _does_ answer prayer." Andrew reminded the other man.

"I know, but I've seen so much, sometimes it's hard to believe He actually cares about our lot."

"I knew it had been a bad day when every one of you came creeping in late." Andrew murmured sympathetically.

"Seven, Roberts. Seven constables killed because the press had to stick their noses where they didn't belong and news of the raid leaked out."

He dragged himself to his feet. "I had to tell three wives and two mothers that their men wouldn't be coming home to them ever again." Another sigh. "And here I am ranting." A tired and self-deprecating smile crept across his face. "Sorry I was late, and sorry I wasn't more attentive. What I caught of the message was great." He paused. "The boys seemed to enjoy it, at any rate, though they were a mess today."

"You and the others are always welcome, Giles, you know that." Andrew reminded the man.

"You don't know how much that means to us, Pastor." The man looked just a little less weary as he turned to me. "I'd shake your hand," he said ruefully, "but I don't think it'd be a good idea after what I've been into today, Reverend…" He trailed off, and looked uncomfortable. "I'm afraid I didn't catch your name."

"Blackthorn." The man told him. "Reverend Arthur Blackthorn." He hesitated. "And you are?"

"Lestrade." A grin. "Inspector Giles Lestrade."

Blackthorn balked. "Inspector?" He asked uncertainly.

Andrew explained. "He and the other boys are from Scotland Yard. They seem to favor this little church for some reason."

The Inspector chuckled. "It might have something to do with the fact that you didn't run Hopkins off after he passed out in the middle of your Christmas service from the alcohol was forced down him after he'd been thrown in the river." He suggested. "That kind of understanding of some of the less pleasant aspects of our job gets around."

"He apologized for being tipsy beforehand." Andrew replied smoothly. "He didn't need to be out in the city in the condition he was in anyway."

"Still-" The Inspector insisted.

"I cannot in good conscience turn away men who shed their blood and give their lives for our safety." Andrew cut him off firmly.

The Inspector blinked.

Dark eyes studied Andrew's face intently, and some of the weight seemed to lift from the Inspector's shoulders. "Thank you." He finally said.

Then he nodded briskly to the two of us and strode towards the door and out into the streets.

Andrew turned to look at his companion. "I saw you when they came in. You were expecting trouble." Simply an observation. No accusations, no condemnation. Andrew was good at that.

Blackthorn shrugged. "I was wrong. They looked like a rough bunch."

"They _are_ a rough bunch. They have to be down at Scotland Yard."


	11. Chapter 11

"So what do you think of the new Inspector?" Bradstreet asked. Hopkins' response was to promptly take another drink from his glass.

"I've been told to keep my opinions to myself." He replied. Bradstreet laughed.

"That bad?" He asked sympathetically. Hopkins nodded.

"I've only run into him once, and Gregson overheard, and…"

"Suggested you keep your mouth shut." Bradstreet finished. "Don't worry, he won't last."

"How can you be so sure?" Hopkins wanted to know.

"Because he's already managed to run afoul of Gregson, and the Constables have no respect for him." Bradstreet replied easily. "And he won't listen to a word Jones says. You'd think he'd realize there's a reason they have him paired with the man, but he thinks he already knows everything."

"Don't they usually pair the newcomers with Lestrade?" Hopkins asked, recalling his own promotion to Inspector and the two weeks he had spent trailing after the older man.

"Usually," Bradstreet confirmed, "but Lestrade's been out working on some secret case no one's supposed to know about." He snorted. "As if the fact that he's been missing from work for a week doesn't scream that he's been called away by someone higher up in the government."

"You think he'll be back soon?" Hopkins asked.

"I hope so. We could certainly use him." Bradstreet's expression abruptly darkened. "Oh, lovely."

"What?" Hopkins tried to see what Bradstreet was glaring at.

"Jones is here. He brought Greene with him."

Hopkins groaned. _So much for a relaxing evening_. "Why?"

Bradstreet shrugged as the two Inspectors joined them in their corner and Jones signaled for a drink. "Jones. Greene." Bradstreet's greeting was less than warm. Hopkins reminded himself to keep his mouth shut.

"I take it you've already met?" Jones asked Bradstreet. The other man nodded, but didn't elaborate. "I've been trying to get him to where he can recognize those of us who don't wear a uniform."

Greene peered around. "He wanted to introduce me to-what's his name? Lestrade? Some fellow who hasn't been around all week."

"Lestrade." Hopkins confirmed. "Is he back?"

"I thought I heard something about him getting back today." Jones replied. "Don't hold me to it, but if he is…"

"He'll stop here before he heads home." Bradstreet finished. "What took you?" He asked as Gregson joined them.

The most recent arrival scowled in reply. "Some crazy old woman came in ranting about how her neighbors are out to steal her cats. All eight of them. I had to agree to have a talk with the neighbors first thing in the morning before I could get her to leave." He groaned and leaned back into his chair. "What's _he_ doing here?" He asked, noticing Greene.

"Jones brought him." Bradstreet said quickly, before the newer Inspector could open his mouth and say something offensive. Gregson was _not_ in the mood to just wave it off. "So was the rest of the day as bad as the last part of it?"

Gregson shuddered. "I wish Lestrade would get back. _He's_ the one that likes asking Holmes for help."

Hopkins unwisely opened his mouth. "I don't think it's that he enjoys it so much as he doesn't mind admitting he needs the help."

"I don't mind admitting I need help." Gregson retorted, favoring the lad with a glare. "It's the abuse that gets old."

"Ah, but Lestrade takes twice as much from the man as you do, Gregson." Bradstreet pointed out. "Have you introduced Greene to Holmes yet, Jones?"

Jones rolled his eyes. "Why would I do that when I can't even get the boy to mind his manners at the Yard?" He wanted to know.

Greene sniffed. "I really don't think-" He began haughtily.

"That much is obvious." Gregson cut him off. He'd had enough of the young man for one day. "If you want to learn something about the people you work with, keep your mouth closed and your eyes and ears open."

"I've learned plenty enough about you lot." Greene snapped.

Gregson scoffed. "Well you aren't here to learn about us, you're here to learn about Lestrade, if he ever shows up, and I don't envy you _that_ experience."

Bradstreet was interested. "You think it will be that bad?" He asked.

Gregson studied Greene for a moment before replying. "You weren't there the last time Lestrade decided someone needed taught a lesson. None of you were. It wasn't pretty. I'm warning you, Greene. Keep your mouth shut."

Greene huffed and took a drink from his glass. "I didn't come here to take your abuse." He informed the other Inspector angrily.

"Are you abusing someone else while I'm gone, Gregson? I'm hurt." Lestrade was back after all, and apparently in enough of a mood himself to poke at his 'rival.' He took one look at the new Inspector sitting in his usual seat and went for a stool from the bar. There was a shuffle as those already seated moved to make room for the man.

"Why'd you come back so soon? The Yard is always so pleasant with you gone!" Gregson called to him.

He set his stool down right beside Greene, and signaled for his usual as he sat down. "How's Mr. Holmes doing?" He asked pointedly. Gregson scowled at him, but didn't reply, and Lestrade turned his attention to Greene. "Michael Greene, right?" He didn't wait for a reply. "Lestrade."

"The infamous Lestrade. We've been talking about you, or they have." Greene chuckled. "You don't have a first name?" He asked. Dark eyes did not reciprocate his humor.

"Giles." He said. "But you may call me either Inspector or Lestrade."

"Or both." Bradstreet chimed in brightly. Lestrade ignored him in favor of studying the man beside him.

"How long have you been with us, Greene?" He asked. Gregson winced. He hoped Lestrade wasn't going to give the new Inspector a full interrogation here and now.

"Three days." Greene replied. Lestrade didn't give him a chance to elaborate before moving to the next question.

"Who are you paired with?"

"Him." He jerked his head towards Jones.

"And how is that going?" Lestrade wanted to know.

Greene rolled his eyes. "Mostly it's just been one person after another telling me how dangerous the job is and how I'll be lucky to last the first week."

Lestrade considered this. "What seems to be the problem, then?" He finally asked.

Greene shrugged. "They seem to think I'm not as good as the rest of them. I've spent three days doing paperwork and getting lectured." Lestrade waited impassively while the other vented. "And when Jones got called out yesterday he left me behind and said it _wasn't something I was ready for_."

"Oh." Lestrade said. "I see." Greene waited, but the smaller Inspector was apparently finished. He turned his attention to his drink, and Hopkins turned and asked Gregson what he was going to say to the old woman's neighbors the following morning.

Gregson tersely replied that he was simply going to stop by and mention that the woman was worried about her cats; he was watching Lestrade out of the corner of his eye, waiting for the next move.

Greene was staring at the smaller Inspector with some annoyance. It was only a matter of time before he grew tired of waiting for an explanation and demanded one. What happened then-

"So can you tell us what you were doing?" Bradstreet asked. Lestrade shook his head.

"No, but I'll tell you this. That is the _last_ time I admit that I can speak passable French."

"You speak French?" Hopkins was surprised. Lestrade shot him a look.

"No." He replied evenly. "I don't."

"Didn't you just say you did?" Greene wanted to know. Lestrade raised an eyebrow in response.

"I don't think I did." He told the newcomer.

"You said-"

"That it was the last time I admitted that I can speak passable French." Lestrade cut the man off. "_Passable_ is a very broad term, and open to interpretation."

"Did you insult someone?" Now Gregson was curious.

Lestrade almost smiled. "It must have been an accident." Was his cryptic response.

"Did you insult an official?" Bradstreet asked. Lestrade ignored him. "Did you get into a fight?"

Lestrade sighed, and gave in. "I was assigned to work with a man who was six foot one, overbearing, and badly in need of a lesson in manners."

"And _you_ were the one to teach him?" Greene broke in, incredulous. Again, Gregson winced.

"He could teach you a thing or two." Jones retorted. Greene couldn't help but look the smaller Inspector over critically at this, nor could he completely stop the smirk that was threatening to emerge. He may have been newly promoted, but he was certainly no rookie when it came to fighting.

Lestrade turned to look Jones straight in the eye. "Is this why you brought him?" He asked conversationally. "You were hoping I'd knock some sense into him?"

Jones didn't bother denying it. Greene looked from one of them to the other. "He wants you to _what_?" He asked Lestrade, insulted.

"Knock some sense into you." Came the easy, if infuriating reply.

"You're too full of yourself." Gregson put in helpfully. "Can't tell you anything."

"You couldn't introduce him to Mr. Holmes instead?" Lestrade wanted to know as Greene shot Gregson a glare. "Easy, there, Greene. Annoying people is a hobby of Gregson's."

"Well he's certainly good at it." Greene retorted. "I've never met anyone so proud of himself simply for not being illiterate. As if we should all be impressed by his extensive vocabulary."

Gregson was considering teaching the boy a lesson himself. Bradstreet laid a restraining hand on his arm, and Gregson decided it would probably be more fun letting Lestrade do the honors anyway. Greene didn't notice; he was too busy watching Lestrade.

Lestrade looked thoughtful. "You might choose your words a little better in the presence of the man himself. And his colleagues." He added as an afterthought.

"But it's insufferable!" Greene insisted. Lestrade sighed.

"You do know it's considered rude to talk about a person as if they aren't there, don't you?" He inquired absently, checking his watch. "It's getting late. Elisabeth will be waiting."

Greene looked curious. "Are you married? They say most men in the force are unhappily married. Usually the wife gets tired of her husband never being home and eventually starts looking for comfort elsewehere."

"Oh, geez." Jones muttered. Gregson looked apprehensive.

Lestrade had kicked the other man's chair out from under him, sending him crashing to the floor. People looked their way, then wisely decided to look elsewhere.

Lestrade stepped forward, grabbed the young man by his collar, and hauled him to his feet. Then he hit him. The force of the blow sent Greene stumbling backwards, or would have, if Lestrade hadn't grabbed his collar again.

A few minutes later, Greene had received the thrashing of his young life.

Lestrade dragged the new Inspector up off the floor and dropped him unceremoniously in a chair. Then he pulled up his stool and studied the battered Inspector. After a moment, he spoke. "There are a few things you need to get straight if you're going to make it as an Inspector, boy."

"I'm not-" Through a bloody nose and split lip, the young man was still stupid enough to try arguing.

"You act like one." Lestrade cut him off evenly. "And it's going to get you in trouble. Stop thinking you already know everything."

"I don't-"

"_Shut up _and _listen_ when your fellow Inspectors are trying to tell you something, and stop arguing. You're going to get yourself, and possibly someone else, killed if you don't smarten up. Now I don't care how old you are or how smart you are or who your uncle is, you'd better get your act together if you want to survive."

Greene didn't say anything this time, and Lestrade leaned closer to the man. His voice lowered. "And concerning marriage, Inspector, you have just managed to insult the wives of three of the five man you're sitting with. I would suggest that you refrain from mentioning the subject again."

He stood, returned his stool to its proper place, and again checked his watch. "Good evening, gentlemen." He excused himself, and calmly headed for the door.

"Wow." Bradstreet finally managed. He almost felt sorry for Greene now.

Greene had the look of someone trying to come to terms with what he has just witnessed. Much to Gregson's amusement, Hopkins and Jones wore the same expression.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and the boys do not belong to me.


	12. Chapter 12

Doctor John Watson regarded the young man before him.

"Inspector Lestrade is not someone I would cross." He said gently as he opened his medical bag.

The Inspector, Green, if Watson remembered correctly, looked up in surprise. "Who told you that?" He demanded, a flash of anger and humiliation in his eyes.

Watson smiled as he went through his bag. "No one told me, Inspector." He assured Greene. "But you have a black eye, a split lip, and your nose, while recently bloodied, is not broken. You are stiff, which suggests bruising, but not in enough pain to suggest any broken bones. So while you _have been_ thoroughly battered, and whoever did it wanted people to see and for you to remember it, your assailant also took care not to do any serious damage. This suggests that someone wanted to teach you a lesson, and that it was therefore probably someone who works with you. An Inspector, most likely. Take your shirt off."

Greene did, reluctantly, revealing a number of bruises on his arms and torso. "What makes you say it was Lestrade?" He insisted sulkily.

Watson was silent a moment before answering. "Nobody delivers a beating like Inspector Lestrade, though he does it rarely." The doctor smiled. "He was also the one that asked me to look you over."

Greene scowled. "Why the devil should he care?" He demanded.

Watson's eyebrows went up. "He cares because you're a fellow Yarder. He doesn't want to see you get yourself in trouble, or get killed. He wanted to make you think."

"So he beat me half to death." Green spat. "Great method."

Watson met the young man's angry gaze evenly. "Better Lestrade that someone who would kill you just as soon as look at you." He said coolly.

Watson closed his bag and took a seat. "They're a hard lot, Green." He said kindly. "They're difficult to work with, and it's difficult to gain their respect." He leaned forward as he spoke. "But pay attention; watch, listen. You can learn a lot from them, if you'll let yourself."

The young man glared at the doctor for a full minute before he finally spoke. "They don't think I have what it takes." Greene confessed, and his shoulders slumped. "They want me to fail. Prove them right."

Watson sighed, and ran a hand through his hair, searching for something to say to the Inspector. "Lestrade doesn't." He finally said.

Greene's head snapped up. "Pardon?"

Watson stood, and went to retrieve his bag. "If Lestrade didn't think you had a chance, he wouldn't have wasted his time on you. Good day, Inspector."

Greene rose stiffly. "Thanks." He said a bit awkwardly. "What do I owe you for-?"

Watson raised a hand to interrupt him. "I don't charge the men of the Yard injured in the line of duty."

Greene frowned. "I wasn't." He pointed out.

Watson smiled. "I know. But I don't charge people who have tangled with Lestrade either." His eyes twinkled. "At least, that's what I had to tell the man to stop him from trying to pay me for coming out here."

With that parting shot the doctor retrieved his hat and his stick, and departed.

Greene stared after him.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and the boys at the Yard do not belong to me. Neither does the good Doctor, for that matter.


	13. Chapter 13

Lestrade popped into Jones' office. "Come on, and bring your boy with you!" He barked, and was gone. Jones sat there for a second longer, sighed, and sprang into action.

"Greene, let's go!" Jones shouted as he took off down the hall after the other Inspector. Greene poked his head out into the hall.

"What's going on?" He asked.

"Let's go!" Jones hated repeating himself, but the boy got the hint and hurried to catch up with him. The questions, however, didn't stop.

"Where are we going?" Greene wanted to know.

"Your guess is as good as mine." Jones snapped. He really didn't want to have this conversation while trying to keep up with Lestrade.

"You don't know?" Greene demanded. "You don't have any idea what's going on?"

Jones managed to scowl at the younger man. "When Lestrade pops in, tells you to come on, and doesn't bother to explain why, you don't waste time asking questions."

Greene wasn't convinced, but was wary enough of Lestrade not to pursue the matter as they climbed into a cab. Jones groaned; if Lestrade was in enough of a hurry to have a cab waiting…

Lestrade was checking his revolver. A shiver ran down Jones' spine.

"Am I going to be dodging bullets?" Jones wanted to know.

"No, but you might be needing to pray for forgiveness when we're done." Jones was tempted to scoff, but Lestrade's next words were not even remotely humorous. "We've got a couple fugitives holed up in a church and using a children's choir as hostages."

"Are you serious?" Jones couldn't help his explosion. "A church? What are they thinking?"

"That we won't dare try anything." Lestrade said somberly.

"Which is why you brought me." Jones understood. There was no doubt that he was the least religious of the group. Lestrade nodded. "Are _you _okay with this?" Jones asked.

Lestrade grimaced. "They killed one of the children to make sure the Constables who followed him in knew he was serious. I'd say that pretty much negates the concept of 'sanctuary.'"

"Do we have a plan?" Jones asked as the cab stopped and they dismounted.

"Greene is going to keep his mouth shut. _You _are going to try to negotiate with them. I'm going to shoot them if they try anything." Lestrade replied grimly.

"You're already out of favor with the papers." Jones reminded him as they raced up the stairs. Lestrade shrugged.

The Constables were gathered in the foyer. "They're in the choir loft." One of them reported as the Inspectors approached.

"Thank you." Jones said, taking the lead. He carefully opened the door to the sanctuary and the three cautiously stepped inside.

He ignored the body of the child lying on the ground, and focused his attention on the gathering in the loft. He raised his voice. "This is Inspector Jones of Scotland Yard. Can we talk?" He asked.

One of the men held a gun to the head of a terrified boy of about nine or ten. "What about?" He demanded.

Jones fought back the urge to swear. "What do you think?" He retorted. "About your current situation!"

A laugh. "You want to negotiate?" The man asked warily.

Jones sighed. "Yes. I want to negotiate the release of the children."

Another laugh. "So, what? We let the children go, and you let us walk out of here? I didn't think you people made those kind of bargains."

"I'm not authorized to." Jones admitted.

"But you're willing to anyway? Tell you what, _Inspector. _You and your buddies can leave, and call off the police. We'll leave, and we'll take one of these lovely children with us. After we make it out of the city, we'll let the child go."

Jones rolled his eyes. "Come on, be reasonable! There's no way I could get away with a stunt like that."

The other man chose to speak up then. "We aren't playing games here, Inspector. Unless you want another dead kid on your hands, I suggest you do what he says."

Jones raised his hands. "Now just calm down, there's no need to-"

"Get out." The first man ordered. "Call off your men, or this one dies, and that pretty little girl goes next."

Jones looked towards Lestrade. "He means it." He muttered. Lestrade nodded; he was already backing towards the door.

"We're going." Lestrade told them. "You don't have to hurt anyone else."

There was a glint in the first man's eye. Jones swore. "Les-" He was cut off by the sound of a gunshot, and the sounds of children screaming.

Greene watched in horror as the boy fell to the ground, and the little girl broke and ran. This time it was Lestrade who swore.

After that things happened rather quickly.

The first man took aim, and again a shot rang out.

Greene darted forward to grab the girl.

Lestrade drew his own gun and fired off two shots in quick succession.

Greene caught the girl. She stared up at him with empty eyes.

And suddenly all he was aware of was the limp body in his arms that had once been a little girl, bleeding all over him and the floor of the church. He didn't realize he had pulled her closer, as if doing so would bring her back to life or undo the horrors that had taken place in what was supposed to be a place of hope.

Time stopped, and had no meaning as he tried to understand how something like this could happen. How could there be people in the world who would harm an innocent child?

He was shaking, and his face was wet, but he didn't care. Someone's baby girl wouldn't be coming home tonight. She wouldn't come home ever again. He wasn't sure how else he was supposed to react to that.

Or the knowledge that he had both witnessed and been unable to stop it.

Gradually he became aware that someone was speaking to him, and that he should probably respond.

"Come on, Greene." He knew that voice. _Lestrade. "Give her to Jones, there's a good lad."_

Jones was kneeling before them, waiting to relieve him of his burden. He felt strangely reluctant to let him do so.

"Jones is going to take care of her, Greene. Just hand her over." He loosened his grip a little. "There you go, lad." Lestrade's voice was strangely gentle as Jones eased the girl out of Greene's arms. He felt lost and empty now.

He felt an arm around his shoulders, and someone guiding him into a standing position. "Come on, Greene. Let's get you out of here."

He nodded mechanically and let the older Inspector guide him from the room and out of the church. He wondered if he would ever look at a church the same way again.

His head began to clear a bit as Lestrade mumbled half an apology to the priest on their way out. As the reached the steps, he suddenly remembered.

"The men! What happened to them?" He turned to look back towards the doors, but his attention was caught by the expression on Lestrade's face.

"They're dead, Greene." Lestrade assured him. "Both of them." Greene suddenly realized the man had been serious about shooting them, and he wasn't upset to hear that Lestrade's aim had been accurate.

Of course, that didn't change the fact that three _children _were now dead_._

Lestrade led him away from the church and away from the gathering crowd. He didn't say a word as they began the walk back to Scotland Yard, but left Green alone with his thoughts.

He wasn't sure whether or not he should be grateful.

When they finally reached their destination, Greene hesitated in front of the building. Lestrade turned, and looked him up and down. Then he spoke.

"Go home, Greene. Get some rest, and we'll see you tomorrow." Greene opened his mouth to protest, but Lestrade cut him off. "You've been through enough for one day, Inspector. I'll tell Jones I sent you home."

Greene sighed, and his shoulders fell. "Yes, sir." He said.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	14. Chapter 14

Lestrade was working when Greene nervously poked his head in through the office door. "Um, Inspector?" He said, fully expecting to be thrown out of the man's office. Instead, Lestrade merely waved him in.

Greene entered the small room, and quickly took the other available seat. Lestrade kept writing. The younger man fidgeted, trying to think of how to go about this.

He had to be crazy for coming in here, of all places. But then, in spite of the beating the man had given the younger Inspector, he did seem to be the least hostile towards Greene out of the bunch. And if that doctor was to be believed, Lestrade had at least seen _some_ potential in the young man.

Lestrade set aside his papers and looked the young man over. "Your uncle was responsible for your promotion to Inspector." He commented, and Greene nodded. "How long were you a Constable before you were promoted?"

Greene's gaze fell, and he set himself to studying the Inspector's nearly spotless desk. "Less than a month." He admitted sheepishly. Lestrade's only response was to nod, as if he had expected something of the sort. Greene took a deep breath. "Um, Inspector, about yesterday?"

Something shifted in those dark eyes. "What about it?" Lestrade asked, his voice low.

Greene swallowed nervously. "Well, it's just, I've never seen anything like that before."

Lestrade sighed. "I didn't think you had." Dark eyes bored into Greene's as if they could reach in and see everything that was tumbling around in his skull. "Things like that, they either make you or break you in the force."

The challenge had been laid out. Lestrade was waiting to see how Greene would respond.

The younger man found himself staring again at the Inspector's desk. "They killed three children." He said at last. "I didn't sleep last night. All I could think about was that little girl. How do you deal with something like that? How do you sit there and act like none of that happened?" He didn't really expect an answer. "I'm sorry, Inspector, but I don't think that's something I could do. I don't think it's something I _want_ to be able to do."

Lestrade was silent for a long moment. "Not everyone's cut out for the force." He finally said. "We deal with death and violence and horror every day, things that most people couldn't imagine, let alone face day after day. There's no shame in that, Greene. It just means you aren't meant for this kind of work."

The younger man relaxed, just a bit. "I've made a fool of myself, here." He hadn't meant to say that; it had just slipped out.

Lestrade chuckled. The sound caused Greene to start, anticipating some sort of agreement. Instead the Inspector shrugged. "We all make idiots of ourselves at one time or another, Greene. What's important is that we learn from it."

Tentatively, Greene smiled. "I'll try to remember that, Inspector. Thank you."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and company do not belong to me.


	15. Chapter 15

Chris was not a man who liked being sent out of the country to hunt down men who posed threats to said country.

He liked having to work with the police in whatever country he was being sent to even less.

And if he had to pick a place to arrange a stakeout, London would definitely not be the place, and Scotland Yard would definitely not be the representatives of the police he would want to work with.

England. The British. Most of the members of the police he had worked with in that particular country in the past were arrogant and prim and proper enough to make a man want to shoot himself in the head and be done with it.

He shuddered as he remembered that incident with the brothers. It had been Brown and Brown and Black and Black, except Brown and Brown were related but Black and Black were not. That was the last time he had allowed the people he was working with to insist upon that ridiculous habit of using their last names instead of their firsts.

First names were simpler anyway. It was much easier to forget a 'Bill' than a 'Zelazny,' and yes, he had come across that name before, and a few even wilder ones. Not to mention people didn't talk about Officer Tim or Detective Jerry; no, they used last names. Names he didn't want to be able to link to people later.

Chris didn't use his last name; if pressed, he would probably have had to think for a minute before he could tell what it was nowadays. As he waited for the men he would be working with to arrive, he hoped that their superior had done his job properly and informed them of his aversion to last names.

He could hear them arriving now, and allowed himself a sigh. They were arguing. Someone had told him the London police force was a quarrelsome bunch. He had been hoping they had been wrong.

"This is _your _fault, L-"

Someone cut the angry accusation off. "First names only, remember?" A second voice warned the first one.

Someone else laughed. "I'm not sure that's going to do you much good, _Giles_."

"_Altheney_ is probably right, you know." That first voice pointed out.

A soft sigh. Then a knock on the door.

"Come in." Chris told them. They did, and once inside, stopped to give him a thorough looking over even as he did the same to them.

"Chris?" The second voice in the hall.

"Giles." Chris replied. The man nodded. He was the smallest of the bunch, and the least uncertain. He had been here before, done that. That had been one of the reasons he had been chosen. The man had dark hair, dark eyes, and a look about him that suggested he knew more than he would admit to.

"Which one of you is Athelney?" The man in question started, and Chris couldn't suppress a chuckle. "You were arguing loudly enough in the hall, I'd be surprised if the whole block didn't know those two names by now."

_Athelney_ was a stout fellow, and burly, with twinkling eyes and a reddish complexion. He also looked to be a bit irritated at being reproved by the member of the United States Secret Service standing before them.

The tall, blond man's eyebrows went up. "I suppose your last name would have been less memorable." He said to Athelney. "Mine too, for that matter." He was wary, but still projected an attitude of cool, casual, arrogant disinterest. It almost worked on Chris.

"Until the papers decided to stop picking on-Giles," there was only the slightest catch on the name, "and turned back to you for a bit. As far as that goes, Athelney and Tobias are still better. There aren't many places in London I could walk into and ask if anyone had seen Inspector Giles without getting blank looks." This man was more relaxed that Giles. Chris suspected that he was the laid back kind of fellow that if involved in a firefight would simply shrug and return fire, then go back to his beer. Then again, Chris had seen plenty of easygoing people lose that cool in the face of danger.

"Could you walk in anywhere and ask that without getting blank looks?" The youngest of the group wanted to know. He had a nervous, untried look about him that made Chris worry. He would have to keep an eye on that one.

Tobias snorted. "People in the _Yard_ would probably give you blank looks if you asked that. You've seen how he signs his name."

"With a G." The easygoing fellow explained for Chris's benefit. "I'm Roger, by the way. That's Tobias," he pointed, "and the lad there is Stanley."

So Chris had Giles, Athelney, Tobias, Roger, and Stanley. He supposed it could have been worse. It looked like they might settle down and actually start on business, until Tobias answered Stanley's question.

"You could ask for Inspector Giles at his house. His wife would know who you were talking about." Chris resisted the urge to groan and beat his head against the wall.

Giles cleared his throat. "We aren't here to socialize, you know."

"I _was_ aware of that." Tobias retorted. "You would be my last choice of someone to visit with."

"Thanks." Giles snapped. "Now shut up, so we can get this over with."

"Pay up." Roger smirked. "I told you he hates this classified stuff." Giles shot both him and Athelney a glare, and Athelney handed the coin over without uttering a word.

Chris felt it was time to regain control over the situation. "Gentlemen." He said, drawing their attention. "Let me explain to you why you're here."

Stanley opened his mouth. "Keep your mouth shut, Stanley." Tobias cut him off.

Chris was curious. He forced himself back to the whole reason they were here. "I am with the United States Secret Service." Nods all around; they already knew that. "I am here after a man who is a serious threat to the government back home. I have been assured of both your cooperation and discretion in this matter." More nods; Stanley suddenly looked alarmed.

Chris continued. "We are here because this man is supposed to be meeting with several second parties interested in what he has to offer. This meeting is taking place tonight, in the building across the street. We are to wait for that meeting to start, and put a stop to this threat."

Tobias looked thoughtful. "Just what do you mean when you say 'put a stop to'?" He asked.

Chris looked him dead in the eye. "I mean that he is not, under any circumstances, or for any reason, to get away."

"When is this meeting taking place?" Athelney wanted to know.

Chris sighed. "We don't know, exactly."

"Stakeout." Roger commented. "We'll be here all night." He didn't seem particularly worried.

Tobias groaned. "My wife is _not_ going to be pleased." He glared at Giles. "It's not fair." Giles ignored him in favor of finally allowing himself to yawn behind his hand. "Tired?" Tobias sneered.

Giles didn't ignore _that_. "Of course I'm tired. I've been on my feet since yesterday morning when someone dragged me away out before breakfast with stories of a _bear_ running loose in London."

Stanley looked sheepish. "It _was_ a bear, and I didn't know what to do. They don't cover than in training."

"It was a bear cub." Giles pointed out. "Escaped from the circus. They were more than capable of handling the situation after you sent for them."

Roger grinned. "So you kept an eye on the bear while he went for the circus?" Giles nodded. "Why didn't you go back home after that?"

"He ran into Mr. Holmes." Stanley explained.

"And nearly got my skull knocked in by a grave robber with a shovel." Giles added. "And then-"

"Okay, okay, it was one of those days." Tobias interrupted hastily. "So put Stanley on watch, and we'll all get some shut-eye while we're waiting." He shot a look at Chris. "That is, if _he_ doesn't have a problem with it."

Chris knew quite a few people who _would _have had a problem with it. Chris personally was of the opinion that it was best to sleep when you had the chance, and it _was_ late.

Then again, he wasn't so sure about the kid taking the watch. Or the fact that the others had apparently given him little choice in the matter.

"Go ahead." He said. "But are you sure he's the best choice?"

Stanley looked alarmed. "I don't mind." He quickly assured Chris. It wasn't immensely convincing.

"It makes sense for him to do it." Athelney was saying as he looked around the room for a place to lay himself down. "Stanley doesn't sleep."

Stanley shrugged off the comment and took his post. Chris watched as the other four settled down in the floor of the mostly empty room without complaining and were shortly asleep.

Chris turned to Stanley. "You don't need to take the whole time. If our man doesn't show up within three hours, wake me up and I'll take a turn."

Stanley flushed. "You don't have to do that." He mumbled.

Chris rolled his eyes. "Wake me up in three hours. Consider that an order."

Three hours later, Stanley had reluctantly awakened him, but had shown no inclination to join the others on the floor. Chris wondered if maybe he were too nervous to consider sleeping, for the boy certainly did seem worried about the work ahead of them. He was still watching for their man, so Chris allowed himself a moment to study the lad.

Stanley turned and met his gaze evenly. "I _don't_ sleep." He assured Chris before he went back to staring out the window. "Not much, anyway. An hour or two a night, maybe." He shrugged. "I never seemed to need much sleep, so I became the natural choice of watch on stakeouts. I don't mind, not really, depending on who I'm working with."

Chris didn't really like socializing with the people he had to work with, but he couldn't help asking anyway. "Why should a different partner make a difference to you?" He asked. "If they all sleep…"

Stanley raised an eyebrow. "You'll see." He said cryptically. The two of them went back to staring out the window.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	16. Chapter 16

Author's note: I hope I didn't overdo it on this. I tried not to, but still...

* * *

Chris started as Tobias suddenly jerked upright with a gasp. Stanley turned his head to look, but didn't seem surprised as Tobias let out a soft groan and lay back down. The man was asleep again in less than a minute.

Nor was Stanley surprised when Athelney opened his eyes, looked around, and closed them again. Chris tried to convince himself that it was nothing, but the truth was, _that_ was just plain creepy.

At least Roger's sleep seemed to be untroubled, and Giles-

Giles had just let out a low moan. He stirred, and muttered something Chris couldn't quite make out. Stanley sighed.

"See?" He asked quietly. "Roger's the best to work with; he's one of those few who don't seem to suffer from their work haunting their dreams. Tobias is a pretty quiet sleeper, until he jolts awake like that." He was quiet for a moment, but it didn't last long.

"Athelney is just creepy. I don't know what he's been through that caused it, but the man wakes up every fifteen minutes to make sure everything's okay and then goes right back to sleep. Same thing if someone enters or leaves, he wakes up to check it out, decides it's nothing, and rolls over and goes right on sleeping." Stanley shivered.

"And Giles?" Chris found himself asking in spite of himself. It wasn't like he had anything better to do while they waited.

Stanley shook his head as he looked over where the man lay sleeping, his hands curled into fists, his jaw clenched. "He's almost as bad as Athelney, if he's actually tired enough to sleep. I've never known him to sleep without having some kind of nightmare, and however close-mouthed he can be while he's awake, that doesn't seem to extend to when he's unconscious."

As if to prove his point, Giles let loose a string of profanity that ended in almost a whimper. Stanley swallowed nervously. "You can learn a lot about a man by watching him sleep." He finally mumbled.

Chris considered the lad. "Why are you telling _me_ this?" He asked.

Stanley started. Then he shrugged. "I talk too much." He finally said lamely. "Giles says one day I'm going to have to learn when to keep my mouth shut." Another shrug. "I guess maybe you're seeing it too, now, so I'm not breaking any confidences, and to be honest, it bothers me. You'd think G-Tobias doesn't care about half the stuff he has to deal with, the way he acts, but _something_ wakes him up. _Something _has given Athelney a need to check and make sure he's still safe while he sleeps."

"And what about you, Stanley?" Chris asked. "You said you didn't sleep much."

"I also said I never have." Stanley reminded the man. "But when I do sleep, I sleep just fine. No ghosts haunt my dreams."

"You're still young, though." Chris pointed out.

Stanley barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. "I'm younger than they are." He clarified. "I'm not as young as people seem to think I look, and I'm not as new to the job as people want to believe. I've seen my share of horrors."

Chris was skeptical. After all, nobody wanted to admit that they were still green. "And what sort of horrors _have_ you seen, kid?"

Stanley didn't flinch. "My last case involved finding the murderer of a man who had been beheaded, disemboweled, and stuffed into an armoire in a room at one of the hotels here in London." He informed the other man coolly.

Chris felt his own eyebrows lift. He was surprised in spite of himself. Stanley was staring out the window again. "Is that your man?" He asked suddenly.

Chris looked. "That's him."

Roger and Athelney were suddenly awake, and Stanley was rousing Tobias. Tobias mumbled blearily for a second or two while he regained his bearings, and Stanley moved on to wake Giles.

The man was up and had a hand on a firearm Chris berated himself for not having noticed sooner, and Stanley froze. A second later both men started breathing again, and the five were slinking towards the window.

Chris was pleased to note that all of them were careful as they each took their own look out the window at the men who were beginning to make their way to the old building.

Athelney swore. "_That_ building? They're meeting _there_?" He demanded under his breath.

Stanley and Roger were still watching the window as Athelney exchanged glances with Giles and Tobias. "What?" Chris asked.

Stanley suddenly swore, violently enough to startle his four companions. "It's Wilson." He snapped, shooting an almost pleading look at Roger as they scrambled back from the window.

Giles groaned. "He isn't the target here, Stanley." He reminded the younger man.

Stanley fidgeted. "I know, but…" He didn't finish whatever he had been about to say. "Let's just get this over with." He said instead.

Tobias turned to look Chris in the eye. "One thing, if we're going in there. Are you prepared for a fight?"

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and the boys do not belong to me.


	17. Chapter 17

"You!" Stanley froze, and the rest of the bunch turned to look to Chris for guidance. When none was forthcoming, Tobias rolled his eyes.

"Americans." He grumbled. "They never plan for anything."

Stanley recovered himself then. "You're under arrest." He informed the man who had recognized and called him out in front of a room full of rough characters.

The man laughed. "You and what army, Inspector?" He wanted to know.

Tobias was up and beside the boy in a second, while the rest of the Inspectors huddled back in the hopes of not being recognized. "I wouldn't call us an army, but then, I don't know that we need one for the likes of you, Wilson."

Wilson scoffed. "You two must be out of your heads to come after me here, you know that?"

Roger tapped Chris on the shoulder. "Come on, if you want your man once the fun starts." Athelney had already disappeared, though Giles was still huddled in the corner.

Chris slipped out of his seat after Roger. They made their way to the back of the room unnoticed; all eyes seemed to be on Stanley and Tobias and their man. Nobody even noticed as Roger, Athelney, and Chris found the man they were looking for.

Roger and Athelney had their eyes on the front, waiting. Chris looked up in time to see Stanley land a blow on that Wilson character, and everything exploded into chaos from there.

Chris's companions moved quickly; they had a hold on their target before he could even begin to dart away in the confusion.

"Going somewhere?" Roger asked in a friendly tone. Their target glowered and spat at the two men.

Athelney turned his hold on the man over to Chris. "I'm going to go help the others." He said. "If Giles gets involved…" He didn't finish the statement as he strode off into the crowd.

"We aren't supposed to be here." Roger informed Chris matter-of-factly as they dragged their now struggling captive towards the back entrance. "Not an innocent to be found here, and every one of these men would love to kill at least one of us." He grinned.

His grin disappeared as they reached the street and Chris drew his firearm and fired in one swift motion. Roger stared at the corpse he was now holding with distaste. "Was that really necessary?" He wanted to know as he released his hold on the body.

Chris shrugged. "He needed to be stopped."

Roger shook his head. "That kind of guy isn't much trouble. You can scare them into silence." He pointed out.

"For a while." Chris replied shortly. The last thing he wanted to do was debate ethics and morality with a member of Scotland Yard. "This way he's silenced for good."

Roger just shook his head. "No wonder Giles hates this kind of stuff." He commented bitterly. "Well, you've got your man, so if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go make sure no one else gets killed tonight." He turned without another word and strode back inside.

Chris just stood there and watched him go. His job was done here.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and the boys do not belong to me.


	18. Chapter 18

"Where's the American?" Jones wanted to know.

Bradstreet shook his head. "He got what he came for." He replied grimly. Jones didn't ask anything else. He didn't need to. "So Hopkins got his man after all." Bradstreet commented as he sank into his seat and signaled for a drink.

"At least something good came out of this mess." Jones replied. He closed his eyes. "Bloody secret missions. Sent us into a death trap there. We were lucky."

"Of course we were lucky." Gregson retorted as he joined the two. "Anytime anyone is daft enough to go in there and makes it out alive, it's by pure luck." He groaned as he too took a seat. "Let's not do it again anytime soon."

I'll agree with that." Bradstreet muttered. "What are you going to tell people when they ask about your eye? And the rest of your face, for that matter."

Gregson almost smiled, then winced. He had a black eye, and most of the left half of his face was bruised. "I'll just tell them the same thing Lestrade plans on telling them. That we got into it again."

Jones rolled his eyes. "The last time you two 'got into it' physically was on Holmes' orders."

Gregson shrugged. "I can't help what people believe. So the American killed him, then?" Bradstreet nodded. "I thought he would. At least we're rid of him now. The American, that is."

"At least." Jones echoed wearily. "So is Hopkins any good in a fight?"

Bradstreet laughed. "You've never seen Hopkins in a fight?" He asked. Jones shook his head.

Again, Gregson nearly grinned. "The lad's a terror." He said. "I've never seen anything like it. I think his sister taught him to fight when they were little, and when he joined the Yard he just took all that and added it to what they taught him. He knows some interesting tricks, and isn't above pinching or scratching or gouging if he thinks it necessary."

"Gouging." Jones repeated. "Pinching? Are you serious?"

"He towed Wilson out of there by his ear." Gregson replied cheerfully. "You have to admit, it's hard to put up a fight when someone's got you by the ear." Bradstreet rubbed his own ear absently at the thought.

"Remind me to stay on Hopkins' good side." Jones decided. He was only half joking. "He joining us tonight?"

Gregson shook his head. "No, he's got Wilson to deal with. Lestrade won't be by either." He added before they could ask.

"He all right?" Bradstreet wanted to know. "I know the last time he was fool enough to go in there-"

"He's all right." Gregson assured the other Inspector. "He just hasn't been home for a couple days now. Wish my wife took my absences that well."

"It's not natural." Jones grumbled. "Or fair."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and the boys do not belong to me.


	19. Chapter 19

"Out of my way." Constable Evans held his breath as the 'gentleman' rudely shoved past Inspector Bradstreet to address him. He looked to Bradstreet for guidance, but the Inspector just flashed a smile that quickly disappeared and leaned against the wall lazily. The Inspector was amused by this!

"You. Constable." The gentleman said sharply, and Evans turned his attention to him. "I'm here to report a crime."

Evans' eyebrows went up. "What sort of crime, sir?" He asked uncertainly. He had heard about the nobility, though thankfully he had not had to have much to do with them himself.

The gentleman sniffed. "A crime of the worst sort." He declared, and Evans found himself racking his brains for what crime a nobleman would consider 'the worst.' Sadly, he was coming up with nothing. Seeing his blank look, the gentleman explained. "Murder."

"Oh." Evans was somewhat surprised. He really hadn't been expecting that. "I see-"

"Perhaps you'd better call for an Inspector. Someone who's actually qualified to deal with these sorts of things." The gentleman said impatiently. Bradstreet barely managed not to laugh.

"What sort of things?" Evans asked, wondering if he should be offended.

"Oh, you know, the serious crimes. I mean, you Constables are alright for minor offences, purse snatching and the like, but for _murder_-"

"Of course, sir." Evans had to cut him off. Bradstreet was about ready to go into a fit behind him. He shot the Inspector a look, and Bradstreet shook his head. "Just a moment…" He looked around, desperate. There!

"Inspector!" He called; Hopkins froze, then wheeled about. Evans knew then that calling him over had been a mistake.

"Constable?" Hopkins asked as he strode over. "Evans, is it?"

Evans nodded. "Yes, sir."

Hopkins then noticed the gentleman. "Is something the matter?" He asked shortly. Too late, Evans remembered the Inspector had been running all over London for the past several days looking for a pair of horses, and was likely short on sleep as a result.

"Are you an Inspector?" The gentleman asked. "You're rather young, aren't you?"

Hopkins was in no mood to bandy words with the nobility. "And rather busy as well, sir." He retorted. "Inspector Hopkins." He turned to Evans. "What is it?"

Evans swallowed. "This gentleman says he's here to report a murder." He said quickly. "He says he wants to speak with an Inspector."

It was then that Hopkins caught sight of Bradstreet. He stared for a minute at the other Inspector, then turned back to Evans. "And _he_ couldn't take care of it?"

Bradstreet lost it. Inspector, Constable, and gentleman turned to stare at him, red faced and guffawing like a lunatic. Hopkins rolled his eyes and turned back to the gentleman.

"Sir, I regret that I am in the middle of a pressing case and cannot assist you. However, Inspector Bradstreet here would be more than happy to investigate your claim. Good day." He was across the room before his words registered with the gentleman.

The man's face went white as a sheet. "Inspector-?"

"Bradstreet." The Inspector finished cheerfully. He had managed to recover himself by this time. The gentleman's face went red, and he looked back and forth between the Inspector and the Constable, well aware that he had been made a fool of.

Bradstreet grinned and slapped the man on the shoulder as if he were an old comrade. "No harm done, sir. Let's go take a look at your murder victim, if you will."

He led the still red-faced gentleman across the room and out through the front doors. Evans breathed a sigh of relief.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and the boys at the Yard do not belong to me.


	20. Chapter 20

"Um." Hopkins peeked his head in the office. "Can I bother you for a minute?"

"You already are." Bradstreet joked. "Come on in." Hesitantly Hopkins came in, and took a seat. "What's going on?"

Hopkins shifted nervously. "I'm getting married."

Bradstreet looked upwards. "Congratulations?" He asked. "Is that what you're looking for? Because we've already established that I am _not_ the person you should go to for advice."

Hopkins ducked his head and took to studying the floor. "No, it's just that I, um…I need a best man."

Bradstreet felt his jaw drop. After a minute he managed to gather his wits about him enough to reply. "And I'm your best pick? What's wrong with you, lad? Don't you have any friends?"

Hopkins glared at him. "Do any of us here have friends outside the job?" He wanted to know.

Bradstreet conceded that. "Family?" He tried.

Hopkins shook his head. "I have a sister. That's it."

Bradstreet couldn't help it. "You didn't think Gregson would be a better choice?" Hopkins shot him a withering look, and he snickered. A second later Hopkins snorted.

"Seriously, though." Hopkins said after a moment.

Bradstreet stifled a sigh. "Sure." He agreed. "Sure thing, Hopkins."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys at the Yard do not belong to me.


	21. Chapter 21

Lestrade eyed Jones and Gregson. Then he pulled out his revolver. "If you call either of them in, I'll shoot you." He said flatly.

The other two Inspectors exchanged a glance. "Are you serious?" Gregson wanted to know. Lestrade simply looked at him.

"Okay." Jones said after a tense couple of seconds. "We'll just handle it ourselves then. Sheesh."

"Sure." Gregson agreed. "Alright? We won't bother them." He waited while Lestrade returned his revolver to his pocket. "Now do you mind telling me why you're so dead set against Bradstreet or Hopkins being called in?"

"They're busy." Lestrade replied.

"Doing what?" Jones demanded. "What's important enough that you're willing to shoot us over it, Lestrade?"

Lestrade gave him a look. "Hopkins is getting married today. Bradstreet's his best man." He told them, before stomping off.

Jones shot Gregson a puzzled look. Gregson merely shook his head and started after the departing Inspector. "Come on. We've got work to do."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys at the Yard do not belong to me.


	22. Chapter 22

It was one of those days.

It was the sort of day when the bizarre occurred, and everyone around you acted as if it were all perfectly normal, as if you were the crazy one for thinking any of it was odd or unusual.

As if it were perfectly acceptable for dark haired women to pull Lestrade into a hug, kiss him on the cheek, and then pat him on the head.

As if it were only to be expected that a prostitute from one of the shabbier sections of the city would catch sight of young Hopkins and throw herself at him, or that he would put himself between her and the Constable who had brought her in and start cursing the man in lower class slang.

As if it were an everyday thing for Holmes and Gregson to be arguing over the fact that Bradstreet had arrested Dr. Watson the night before, both at the top of their lungs.

And it didn't help that Jones and Bradstreet were standing there calmly, betting on the outcomes of the goings on in the front room.

Bradstreet looked up and saw the man standing there, staring at the scene before him. "Good day, Superintendent." He said, as if nothing unusual were occurring in the room.

Superintendent Marshall shook his head and headed back to his office. He just couldn't deal with this sort of nonsense today.

Hopefully things would sort themselves out just fine on their own. These sorts of things usually did, with that bunch.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	23. Chapter 23

"Nice view." Lestrade commented as he joined Bradstreet in peering over the bridge. "You owe me. You forgot to pay for your drinks."

"Sorry." Bradstreet mumbled halfheartedly.

"They always said it was bad to drink alone." Lestrade continued speculatively. "Especially after a day like you've had. No one's there to keep you from doing something stupid."

Bradstreet didn't quite flinch. "You heard?"

Lestrade didn't quite smile. "Hopkins said you looked like a ghost when you came in. He was worried, I guess." The silence settled between them, for a moment. Then Lestrade stirred. "Cold night. I'd hate to end up going for a swim on a night like this."

"Hmmm." Bradstreet mumbled noncommittally.

"It's just part of the job." Lestrade said. "These things happen. At least we manage to do _some_ good."

"Not enough." Bradstreet put in darkly. "We can run ourselves ragged, work ourselves to death, and it'll never be enough. We give our blood, and our lives, we sacrifice our time, and what good does it do? Does it really make any difference, when you leave your wife at home in bed in the middle of the night to chase after some murderer or thief?"

"You're drunk." Lestrade informed the other man. "You would never ask me that sober. We do what we can, Bradstreet. And that's all we can do. You know that."

The other man's shoulders slumped. "I know. I know. But it's never enough."

"Sometimes it is." Lestrade said after a moment. "When we stop someone from killing again, or recovering someone's purse means they get to eat that week. We are doing _some_ good, Bradstreet. We can't make the world perfect, but we can make it better."

"Yeah, sure." Bradstreet muttered. Then he sighed. "What brings you out here, anyway?"

"Looking for you. I'm supposed to be dragging you home for dinner, but with all that happened today, I forgot until the last minute."

Bradstreet almost smiled. "And here I thought I'd been forgotten, or _spared_."

Lestrade shook his head. "My wife doesn't forget people. She's just been biding her time."

"Should that worry me?" Bradstreet wanted to know as they left the lonely bridge and made their way to Lestrade's home in the dark.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	24. Chapter 24

"I thought you had him!" Lestrade panted.

"I wasn't expecting to get a face full fish guts." Jones snapped. "After him!"

"No use, we'll never catch him now." Regardless, the two Inspectors were chasing their man down the street as quickly as they could run.

"Look out!" Jones shouted ahead of them. Their man was headed for a collision with a fruit stand.

Somebody stepped directly into their quarry's path. Both Inspectors winced, but the running man slammed into the other, and both went down.

One was up after a moment's struggle and dragging the other to his feet. He grinned as the two Inspectors caught up with them, and Jones started.

"Greene." Lestrade nodded.

"You lose something?" He asked brightly.

Jones shook his head. "Maybe you left too soon, boy." He suggested with a laugh. Whatever problems Jones had with other members of the force while they were at the Yard, he never held on to a grudge after they had left. It was a hard life for those that chose it, and he was well aware that not everyone could deal with it.

Greene colored, and ducked his head. "Maybe I was being pushed into something I wasn't meant for." He offered. "I know I was a pain."

Jones snorted. "Everybody down there gets on each other's nerves on a regular basis, Greene. You just hadn't earned the right to annoy people yet."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "You seem well." He said, and Greene nodded.

"Thanks." Jones said as he finished cuffing their man.

Greene shrugged. "Least I could do." He replied. "Good evening, Inspectors."

Jones and Lestrade exchanged a glance as they headed back. "He looks happy, whatever he's into now." Jones commented. "And he's a good deal easier to talk to."

Lestrade nodded in agreement.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys at the Yard do not belong to me.


	25. Chapter 25

"The Inspectors are, um, busy." Constable Smith informed Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson nervously. He knew what he had seen, and he knew that he had been lucky to get off with just a warning that no one was to bother the Inspectors until further notice. He also knew it was unlikely anyone would believe him, even if he dared to talk.

Sherlock Holmes was, of course, not impressed. "All of them?" He demanded coolly. "At the same time?"

Smith decided he was doomed, and nodded. Sherlock Holmes generally knew when someone was lying to him, and would likely not hesitate to call the Constable on it. "Perhaps you might come back later." He suggested, without much hope.

He wondered if it would be worth trying to prevent the amateur detective from barging past anyway. It would likely be ineffective at best.

Predictably, the man's patience didn't last, and he did barge past as if he owned the place, or at least the right to intrude upon whatever the Inspectors were doing. The Doctor shot Smith an apologetic glance and followed his friend. Smith followed the two of them, hoping he could at least put on a convincing act of having done his best to keep the two out. If nothing else, it would be better to be there to be yelled at than for someone to have to track him down later for the same purpose.

He watched as Sherlock Holmes correctly surmised that the Inspectors were gathered in Lestrade's office and opened the door. The amateur detective stopped in the doorway, staring, his mouth half open in the beginnings of a summons.

Smith sighed and waited for the Inspectors to realize they had an audience. They were rather preoccupied, so it might be a while.

"Whoever it was, wasn't just trying to drown them, Lestrade. Look at them!" Gregson growled, gesturing.

"They're half starved." Hopkins commented. "It's possible he finally accepted that he couldn't feed them and decided to put them out of their misery."

"Even so, he was given to fits of temper. Look at this one here." Jones pointed out gruffly.

"Any idea who he was?" Bradstreet wanted to know.

A rather wet Lestrade shook his head. "It was either go after the man or fish them out of the river. I couldn't do both." He grumbled.

The Inspectors studied the results of his rescue solemnly. "Well, what are you going to do with them?" Bradstreet asked, curiously.

Lestrade threw his hands up in the air. "I can't take them home; I can't afford to feed them."

"You can't let them loose on the street; they'd never survive." Gregson accused.

"_You_ take them, then." Lestrade retorted.

"I can't and you know it." Gregson snapped.

"Oh, right, the dog." Lestrade grumbled.

"I could take one." Hopkins offered. "It might even get me out of trouble with the Mrs. She's been wanting one."

"Do you know how much trouble those things are?" Jones wanted to know.

"At this age, a lot." Hopkins replied. "But then they get older, you know."

"Maybe." Jones replied.

"Well, I'll take one, and Adams said if you're giving them away…" Bradstreet trailed off.

"_Adams_ wants one?" Hopkins was surprised.

Gregson snorted. "There's a lot more to Adams than he lets on. After all, he's put up with Lestrade for years.

"Very funny." Lestrade retorted. "So you'll take one, Hopkins, and you, Bradstreet."

"And Adams wants one." Bradstreet reminded him.

"And Adams wants one." Lestrade echoed. "That leaves two more."

"Well, two is better than five." Gregson pointed out. "And I told you, I'm not taking one."

"I'll take one." Jones grumbled. "Like Gregson said, you can't turn them loose on the street."

Lestrade sighed. "I guess I can manage one." He said reluctantly.

"You didn't have to rescue them." Gregson pointed out.

"He couldn't let them drown!" Hopkins was horrified. "Look at them!"

Gregson _did_ look, over to Lestrade's desk, which had been quickly cleared, and to where the man himself was trying with a towel to dry off four soaking wet, scrawny, miserable-looking kittens while a fifth one insisted on clinging to his shoulder.

His gaze softened, and his shoulders slumped. "I guess not." He conceded. "Still, better him than me." He smirked as Lestrade shot him a look that he had to break off quickly as he kept one of the kittens from straying too near the edge of his desk.

Holmes had recovered by then, but the image of five Inspectors fretting over a litter of half drowned kittens was enough to elicit a burst of laughter from the man. Smith winced; the effect was instantaneous.

All five Inspectors whirled around as if they had been shot, guilty expressions on every face. They caught sight of Holmes and reddened, and Jones and Gregson both favored Smith with an evil glare.

"I tried to stop them." Smith mumbled helplessly. It didn't help. "I'll just…excuse me." He muttered, trying to make a break for it while Holmes was still laughing.

Red-faced, Jones and Hopkins scooped up the still bedraggled balls of fluff they had apparently claimed and stalked past Holmes and Watson. Bradstreet grinned and shrugged, then scooped up a ball of fur of his own, nodded to Lestrade, and offered to send Adams in on his way back to his office.

Gregson pointedly ignored Holmes and Watson as he followed Bradstreet out of Lestrade's office, leaving just the three of them and two kittens standing in the office.

Holmes was still laughing when Adams stopped in. "Do you have any left?" He asked. "I told Bradstreet to ask-" The Constable froze as he spotted Holmes and Watson, then with great determination forced himself to continue. "Are there any left?"

Lestrade gestured towards the kitten that was still dripping on his desk, and Adams determinedly picked it up by the scruff of its neck, thanked Lestrade, and departed with a curt nod towards Holmes and Watson, as if there were nothing at all unusual about Lestrade dispensing kittens in his office, or about him stopping by to claim one.

Still a bit flushed, Lestrade waited for Holmes to get over his fit of mirth. When finally he calmed, Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Holmes?" He asked.

Holmes considered the kitten that was still hanging from Lestrade's jacket. "You seem a bit occupied today." He said after a moment. "Perhaps we should speak with Gregson."

Lestrade shrugged. "He's probably more presentable at the moment, anyway." He said, wincing as the kitten started to slip and consequently dug its claws into his shoulder.

"If you'll excuse us then, Lestrade." Holmes said. "Come along, Watson."

Watson offered Lestrade a smile. "Sorry to trouble you for nothing, Inspector."

Lestrade nodded as he tried to disentangle claws from his jacket. "Mr. Holmes. Doctor."

They had barely made it out the door before Holmes was laughing again. This time Watson couldn't keep from joining him.

* * *

Author's note: Is anyone immune to the charms of a kitten? This was actually brought on by my grandmother calling and telling us about the kittens my cousin had found.

My cousin is tough, doesn't put up with crap, works as a security guard, etc...Anyway, she found a litter of kittens, about two weeks old, under a bush where their mother had abandoned them. She had to work, but she took them to her Dad, who is, for lack of a better description, all red-neck, and told him he had to take care of the kittens and feed them every four hours. And he did, for her.

Well, a couple weeks later my cousin and her roommate were doing laundry at around 1:00 in the morning, and they had a front loader washer. They loaded and started the laundry, then turned around to see two balls of fluff going around in circles in the washer. So they pulled them out and were trying to beat the water out of them and they called the vet and the vet wouldn't tell them anything over the phone and said they'd have to bring the kittens in.

About that time the two wet kittens start screaming, and the vet tells my cousin that if they're screaming like that, they're fine. In reply she wails, "But they're walking around all wobbly!"

And the idea of my rough, tough cousin wailing over a couple of kittens set me down the road to the idea of five police Inspectors worrying over a litter of half-drowned kittens. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it, and don't worry, at last report the kittens were fine.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	26. Chapter 26

"This your first corpse, Constable?" Gregson asked sympathetically.

Constable Jonas Harvey swallowed hard, and nodded. "Yes, Inspector." He eyed it warily. "So you want me to do what, sir?"

"Make sure it's dead." Gregson explained. "You see, there's this new idea out, that it's best to introduce the new fellows to a corpse that's already dead and been brought in to get them ready for the day when they'll have to deal with one themselves. So here's this one, and it's actually not in too bad of shape, besides the fact that it's dead, for us to introduce you to."

"And you want me to take its pulse." Harvey said. "But why, if you already know it's dead?"

Gregson shrugged. "Better to have you practice now than start when someone's life may depend on it." He offered. "Just go on up there and take its pulse, there's a good lad."

Harvey swallowed again, and looked over at the other Inspector in the room. _Do I have to_? Bradstreet solemnly nodded in response to the unspoken question in the Constable's eyes.

Harvey hesitated for but a moment, then took a deep breath, squared his shoulders back, and approached the corpse. Tentatively he reached out to feel for a pulse, as he had been taught. A second later, his eyes widened.

"He's not dead!" He declared.

Gregson and Bradstreet exchanged a puzzled glance. "Are you sure?" Gregson asked, not the slightest bit alarmed. "Perhaps you'd better try his wrist, just to be sure."

Harvey shot the two Inspectors and incredulous look, but obliged. "He _has_ a pulse." Harvey told the two men.

"Is he breathing?" Bradstreet wanted to know.

Harvey checked. "Yes. Very lightly but, he's definitely breathing." Gregson was by the corpse in a second. Harvey took the man's approach as permission to back away from the not-so-dead body. It was giving him the creeps.

A hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, scaring him half out of his wits. "Aaaaaah!" He yelped, and tried to jerk away; the corpse only gripped his arm tighter. Then it sat up and opened its eyes.

Dark eyes studied him, then the corpse turned to glare at Gregson. "I don't think this actually accomplishes anything other than leave the Constables terrified at the mere sight of me for the next few months." He growled.

Gregson was grinning. "Oh come on, you know it about scares everyone half to death the first time they come across a corpse that isn't really dead. This way the general public doesn't have to be aware of the fact that quite a few of our Constables scream like little girls."

"I think you just enjoy seeing the expressions on their faces." The corpse retorted. Then he turned his attention to the wide-eyed Constable before him. "Take it easy, son. You've been taken in."

Harvey was breathing, albeit rather quickly, and knew he was turning a rather dark shade of scarlet. "Was this some sort of joke?" He demanded, his voice not as steady as he would have liked.

"You could look at it that way." Bradstreet offered. "Or you could look at it as a learning experience without the humiliation of having your reaction reach the papers like mine did."

"He was inconsolable." Gregson offered. "I tried to cheer him up, tell him that at least he didn't faint, but he wouldn't hear it."

"You fainted?" The corpse asked, a gleam in those dark eyes.

"And you let yours nearly strangle you." Gregson retorted. "This is Lestrade, by the way." He said to Harvey. "He got into a bit of a scrap earlier, and we thought we'd make the most of it."

Harvey eyed the Inspector warily. The man was far too pale, had a number of bruises, quite a few cuts, and a black eye. He looked terrible. Terrible enough to have passed for a corpse, in fact.

"Do you need a doctor?" Harvey asked.

"Nah, he's good." Bradstreet informed the Constable as he put an arm around him and led him out of the room. "If the man can still stand without help, he claims he doesn't need a doctor. But he gave you quite a start there. Are _you _alright?"

"I certainly don't need a doctor, if that's what you're asking." Harvey replied. He wasn't sure he was pleased with what had just happened, but it was hard to be irritated with Bradstreet.

"I was actually wondering if you needed a drink." Bradstreet explained with a laugh.

Harvey considered this. "I wouldn't say no to one about now, Inspector." He admitted.

"There's a good lad." Bradstreet grinned and slapped the Constable on the shoulder. "Come along, then."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	27. Chapter 27

Author's note: And the idea for this is, sadly, not mine. The 1950's Sherlock Holmes series with Ronald Howard, more specifically the episode _The Baker Street Nursemaids_, is to blame. There are, of course, moments that are simply painful about the episode, such as Holmes telling Watson to 'make it some milk' or Holmes and then Watson trying to sing it a lullaby. But I absolutely love the fact that Lestrade is the one that can get the baby to stop crying, and that Lestrade is the one that stands there and holds it while they're having a conversation. And I love when Watson tells Lestrade. 'It _likes_ you.' Anyway, I've played around with the idea a bit, and I hope you enjoy it anyway.

Also, I just want to mention that I have a website now, and that it has pictures of the characters and stuff. The link is in my profile, if you'd like to check it out. Thanks!

* * *

When someone stopped by with a basket for Sherlock Holmes, Watson at first thought little of it. The fact that it was a rather large basket was of little consequence either, as there was nothing particularly ominous or mysterious about the other man receiving even a large basket. He therefore accepted the surprisingly heavy basket with little reluctance and set it across the chair to await the return of its intended recipient.

It was forgotten by the time Holmes himself returned a few minutes later. The two men simply continued through the morning unaware of the contents of the package.

"What was that?" Holmes asked, looking up from his chemistry experiment.

Watson didn't look up from his paper. "I didn't say anything, Holmes."

"I thought you did." Holmes replied absently.

"No." Watson assured the other man, and the incident was forgotten. A minute or two ticked by; the day was promising to be uneventful, and Holmes was in a mercifully good mood in spite of that fact.

Watson looked up from his paper. "I'm sorry, Holmes, what?"

Holmes frowned at his experiment. "I didn't say anything."

Watson shrugged and went back to reading. "I thought you did."

A second later, the two men looked up and over at each other, confused by the sound they had both just heard. It took them all of a few seconds to identify the source of the noise: the basket resting on the armchair.

"Where did this come from?" Holmes inquired, eyeing the basket.

"Somebody brought it for you." Watson replied cautiously. "I wasn't aware there was something alive in it." Both men stood there a moment longer, then, "Well open it, Holmes."

"Yes, yes, of course." Holmes opened the basket and stared at what was inside. Watson couldn't blame him for staring; he was doing the same himself. "A baby." Holmes said, making perhaps the most obvious deduction of his life. Watson was too surprised himself to notice, or comment.

"It's crying." Watson pointed out helpfully.

Holmes shot him a look. "I know it's crying, Watson. What am I supposed to do about it?"

Watson considered. "Try picking it up." He suggested.

"Pick it up?" Holmes repeated, and Watson wondered if that were horror shining in the other man's eyes.

Watson nodded. "Yes, Holmes. Pick it up. Babies like to be held."

Holmes expression was suddenly almost frantic. "You pick it up, Watson."

Watson shook his head. He had dealt with children before, but this one was young. Very young. It was also obviously not in need of a doctor, which was his primary experience in dealing with small children. Besides- "It was sent to you, Holmes."

"Watson!" Holmes hissed as the baby's cries grew louder. Reluctantly he picked it up. Much to his dismay, it did no good. The baby continued to cry. "Now what?" Holmes demanded.

For once, Watson was at a loss. In an effort to save face, he went to answer the door, and lamented afresh the fact that Mrs. Hudson was away for the weekend, visiting her sister. She would have known what to do with such the infant.

He managed a smile and hoped the Inspector wouldn't notice the odd sounds coming from the sitting room. "Lestrade, good to see you." He offered, but Lestrade had frozen in the door, a puzzled expression on his face.

"Do you hear that?" He asked.

Watson wondered if it would be better to play dumb. "What?"

Lestrade spared him an incredulous glance before heading towards the sitting room. Watson reluctantly followed him up, and wondered if it were his imagination or if the crying had suddenly become louder.

Watson nearly ran into Lestrade when the Inspector stopped abruptly in the doorway. "Mr. Holmes!" Lestrade cried, darting forward. "What on earth do you think you are doing?"

Holmes tried to hide his sheer horror at having been left alone with the baby. "I'm holding a baby, Lestrade. What does it look like?"

Lestrade blinked. Then he moved forward and plucked the baby from the amateur detective's hands. "That is not how you hold a baby, Mr. Holmes." Lestrade said severely. "You don't hold it out at arm's length like it's got some sort of disease. You hold it close, so it feels safe." He was now cradling the infant in his arms.

"There now, shush, little one." He was looking the child over as he almost rocked it in his arms. His voice was suddenly low, nearly a whisper. "It's alright now, lass-laddie, my apologies. Such a pretty face. Let's hope you grow out of that, or you're going have a hard time growing up." He grinned down at the child as it reached both hands up towards his face.

Holmes and Watson simply stared. "It stopped crying." Holmes said, another _brilliant_ deduction.

"He likes you, Lestrade." Watson commented.

"Nonsense." Lestrade retorted. "He likes not being dangled over the floor like some unwanted object is what it is." As if to disprove his assertion, the infant burbled happily up at the Inspector. Lestrade sighed and shook his head. "Now _why_ do you have a baby up here, Mr. Holmes? It's not yours, surely?"

"Certainly not!" Holmes bristled at the suggestion. "Someone dropped it off in a basket."

"Was there a note?" Lestrade asked, and Watson found himself surprised that the man was quite capable of asking that question at the same time as he seemed to be playing with the small child.

"A note?" Watson echoed.

"A note." Lestrade confirmed. "Usually when someone abandons their child, they leave a note. Did you check in the basket for a note?"

"Actually, we were a bit preoccupied with the basket's main contents." Watson replied. Holmes was already ruffling through the basket in search of such a note.

"Handsome fellow, aren't you?" Lestrade asked the baby. "I would think someone would be missing you, laddybuck."

"Lestrade, would you please stop playing with it?" Holmes inquired. "I found the note."

"I'm not _playing with him_." Lestrade retorted. "I'm checking to make sure nothing's wrong with him. I'm no doctor, but I know people don't usually abandon healthy, handsome sons. What does the note say?"

"_Mr. Sherlock Holmes,_" The man himself read, _"I fear I may be in trouble, and am deeply in need of assistance. I fear I have no one else to turn to, and truly I would not impose upon you in such a manner were it not my son's life at stake. He swears he will find little Robert, and I cannot allow him to take the child. I will be leaving London in a day or two, and I will come for my son then. Until then, I pray that he will be safe from discovery with you. I beg you to keep my son safe, and whole, and to tell no one that he is with you. Yours very sincerely, Sylvia Brown."_

Holmes finished reading, and Lestrade eyed the child with new interest. "Little Bobby Brown, eh? Or Bobby Stevens, if the father has anything to say about it."

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Are you referring to that sordid affair involving Sir Thomas Stevens, Lestrade?" He demanded.

Lestrade nodded, then seeing Watson's puzzled look, explained. "Thomas Stevens was involved in an affair with this Miss Sylvia Brown." He said. "It came to light when Mr. Stevens tried to have the woman arrested for kidnapping his son."

"Their son." Watson realized. Lestrade nodded.

"He claims that the woman would be an unfit guardian, that she is of low moral fiber and little more than a-ahem-street…" Lestrade eyed the infant in his arms and trailed off. "Her record isn't exactly clean, either."

"_Should_ the child go to his father, then?" Holmes wondered.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Have you ever met Mr. Stevens?" He asked. Both Holmes and Watson shook their heads. "He's a nasty piece of work, I'll tell you that." That Lestrade was actually saying something to that end was more than enough evidence of _that_. "Took a horsewhip to Bradstreet last year for asking questions he didn't want to hear in an investigation involving one of his neighbors. And Bradstreet didn't have a clue what to do, so he just stood there and let the-ahem. His servants are terrified of him."

He shook his head. "His mother isn't a prime candidate for motherhood, but she'd be better than the father, and at least she seems to care about the lad."

It took Watson a moment to figure out what that meant. When he did, he understood the apprehension on Holmes' face. "You're saying we should keep the child until she comes for him?" He gasped.

Lestrade eyed the two men. "Certainly. It'll only be a day or two, nothing serious."

"Nothing serious?" Holmes choked. "Keeping a baby for two days, nothing serious?"

"It's not as if you're raising it." Lestrade pointed out. Then he considered the two men before him. "You don't know how to take care of the child." He realized.

"Bravo, Lestrade." Holmes retorted. "Brilliant deduction."

Lestrade sniffed. "I suppose it should have been obvious, the way you were threatening to drop the boy when I came in, Holmes." He shot back.

Holmes looked over at Watson. Then a solution presented itself. "Well, _you _certainly seem to know how to take care of children, Lestrade."

Lestrade favored Holmes with a glare. "I have work. And my own family." He pointed out. Then he considered the child whose small fingers were currently wrapped around his thumb. "I have work." He repeated himself, his voice soft again. "But I'll send a message to my wife. Maybe she'll be able to help you out."

He started to hand the baby over, then stopped himself. "Look, Mr. Holmes, if you're going to hold a child, this is the proper way to do it."

Watson watched in amusement as Lestrade proceeded to coach the amateur detective in the art of baby handling.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	28. Chapter 28

Author's note: Sorry it's been so long. I know I've been negligent, but I've been busy with work and trying to get things ready for school and stuff like that. Not only that, but I'm going on vacation and will be at the beach all week, so you won't get any updates until sometime next week at the earliest. Sorry for the inconvenience, but I have left you with a few things before I go.

* * *

Lestrade leaned back in his seat as Holmes finished talking and rubbed his temple as he considered the situation.

He was in no condition to accompany Holmes and Watson himself after yesterday's fiasco. He knew it, and Watson knew it. Watson had sewn the Inspector up himself, and the injury was still bothering the man enough that he wasn't up to running about today, and wasn't going to try, either.

"Gregson's still recovering from his encounter with a window." Lestrade told the two men. "I could send Bradstreet-no, somebody stabbed him last night." He remembered, wincing.

"What about Hopkins?" Holmes asked impatiently. They were wasting time.

Lestrade shook his head. "He's not up and about after being shot yet." He frowned. "Jones-no, he's ill."

"Well, who _can_ you send?" Holmes exploded.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "It's been a rough week, Mr. Holmes." He said mildly. The Inspector slowly rose to his feet, then, and was not entirely successful in hiding a grimace as he did so.

He went to the door of his office and stepped out into the hall. Holmes and Watson exchanged a glance as they were left alone in the room. Several minutes had passed and Holmes was on the verge of starting on a tirade about having to deal with bumbling Scotland Yarders when Lestrade returned, accompanied by two Constables.

"Doctor." One of them nodded to Watson.

"Mr. Holmes." The other nodded as well.

Both men struck Watson as the type that could easily go unnoticed just about anywhere, including here at the Yard. Their features were also rather forgettable, if the fact that Watson had apparently met one of them before was any indication.

"Adams." Holmes returned the one's greeting. Of course he would remember the man.

"And Smith." Lestrade introduced the other man. "You patched him up a few months back, Doctor." He turned to address the Constables. "You two can go and give Mr. Holmes and the Doctor here a hand."

Adams and Smith nodded. "Yes, sir." They chimed.

Lestrade fixed the two men with a look before turning back to Holmes. "There you go, Mr. Holmes." He said.

Holmes eyed both the Constables critically, but he seemed to realize that it was the best he was going to get, and the best Lestrade could do right now. He nodded, and turned to Watson. "Come along, Watson. Constables."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	29. Chapter 29

Author's note: Sorry it's been so long. I know I've been negligent, but I've been busy with work and trying to get things ready for school and stuff like that. Not only that, but I'm going on vacation and will be at the beach all week, so you won't get any updates until sometime next week at the earliest. Sorry for the inconvenience, but I have left you with a few things before I go.

* * *

Nobody moved for several seconds after Holmes' revelation.

The accused was the first to recover. He turned towards Watson and darted towards him, fist raised as if to strike. It would have been a wicked right cross, had it reached its intended target.

The blow never landed. The man tripped over Adams' outstretched leg and stumbled right into Smith, who caught and cuffed him in one smooth motion.

"We came for him, and him only, sirs!" Smith raised his voice to address the startled audience. "We're perfectly content to just take him and leave the rest of you in peace tonight, but if you want a fight, we'll certainly give it to you!" The surrounding crowd stirred uneasily, but they didn't want trouble, or at least, most of them did not.

One man, however, decided he needed to come to his companion's aid and stepped between the group and the door.

Adams, who was closest to the man, shook his head. "You know you're outnumbered four to one, sir. I suggest you reconsider your options."

The man's response was to draw the knife he had been carrying and take a step towards us. Adams looked at the man for a second, then promptly kicked him in the knee.

There was the sound of bone breaking and the man screamed and went down, clutching at his knee. Adams walked right past him and continued on towards the door.

Watson hesitated, but Smith casually shoved him forward. It was enough to throw him off balance, causing Holmes to move with him, though he shot Smith and irritated glance as he did so.

Smith didn't seem to notice, but handed their man off to Adams as he paused in the door. "I suggest you lot clear out before someone at the Yard decides to pay a visit down here." He suggested pleasantly before joining us out in the street.

The two Constables were once again silent as we made our way down the street. Watson had it in his mind to say something to Lestrade about Adams' treatment of the man we had left behind when they returned to Scotland Yard, for it had seemed to the Doctor that breaking the man's knee had not been necessary. He had also gotten the impression that the Constable had enjoyed doing it.

It was Smith that finally broke the silence. "Was that Runner John?" He asked.

Adams nodded. "It was."

Smith chuckled. "They might actually catch him next time."

"That was the plan." Adams replied coolly. "If we can finally get that filthy-"

Smith cleared his throat, and Adams cut himself off. The two men were silent once more.

"Runner John?" Watson ventured, after a moment. Adams grunted.

"We've been after him for years." Smith explained. "He always manages to break away at the first sign of trouble and get clear."

"So you broke his knee." Watson said. Adams shrugged.

"He would have knife one of us, given the chance, especially since we had his brother here." Adams nodded towards the man they had arrested. The man swore and tried to jerk away from Adams, but Adams had a good hold on him, so all he managed to do was get his arm wrenched for his trouble.

The rest of the trip back to the Yard was quiet, save for the occasional curse from Runner John's captured brother. Watson was surprised by the number of different abuses the man came up with to throw at the Constables, who seemed to be catching most of his aggression, and Watson was surprised at how easily the two seemed to ignore him.

They walked along, quiet and steadfast, and never gave even the slightest indication that they could hear the blistering verbal onslaught that was being directed at them.

Holmes was rather relieved that the two didn't ask questions or try to carry on a conversation. He really didn't care for excessive, frivolous conversation, and too many Constables tried to be friendly, or at least polite, or they asked an excess of questions, and a few would even try to impress him, all of which could be rather trying on his patience.

A police whistle sounded suddenly, in the distance. Adams and Smith exchanged a glance, and Adams handed the cuffed man back to Smith.

"If you don't mind, sirs, Constable Smith is more than capable of handling things from here, and it sounds as if Evans is in need of assistance." Adams said quickly. "That's his area, and help's been scarce of late, so if you'll excuse me…"

Holmes was a bit annoyed, but nodded anyway, and Adams exchanged one last glance with Smith before he took off.

Smith _was_ capable of handling the man. They soon reached Scotland Yard, and were met by Lestrade at the entrance.

"Adams went to help?" Lestrade greeted the three with the question. Smith nodded. "Go on, then." Lestrade told him. "And be careful." The captive man was handed off once more, this time to Lestrade himself, and Smith quickly left.

Lestrade eyed the cuffed man, surprise written on his features. "What is it?" Watson asked. Lestrade started, then shrugged.

"We've been looking for him." Was what he said. "And his brother."

"Runner John?" Watson asked, and Lestrade blinked.

"You saw him." He guessed.

"Adams broke his knee." Watson replied.

"Ah." Lestrade nodded. "Well, nobody's perfect."

"He seemed to enjoy it." Watson added.

Lestrade wasn't surprised. "He swore he'd kill the man, if he ever came across him again. Glad to see Smith talked some sense into him."

"But why would Adams want to kill the man?" Watson asked. He knew he was prying, but he couldn't help but ask.

Lestrade hesitated. Then he sighed. "Runner John and James, his brother here, are the reason _Inspector_ Adams had to retire. Constable Adams' father." He explained. "The Inspector took a bullet in the leg, and it never really healed. Lestrade's dark eyes glittered. "Adams and Smith followed in their father's footsteps." He said darkly. "Adams and Smith senior were both Inspectors when I first joined the force." Once more, he hesitated. "_Inspector _Smith was killed in the same raid in which Inspector Adams was shot."

"James and Runner John fled London, and managed not to resurface until a few years ago, but Constable Adams recognized them both." He added, almost reluctantly.

"Why are you telling me this?" Watson asked, as Lestrade fell silent. The Inspector wasn't usually so free with personal information, whether his or anyone else's. Lestrade offered the Doctor a weary smile.

"I wouldn't have you think ill of the boys for breaking a man's knee when it wasn't necessary." He replied absently, as though his thoughts were elsewhere. "They're good men; very capable, very professional. Not a word of complaint about being sent out, though they're being run ragged this week, what with all the injuries going around."

It was at that moment that Constable Evans arrived; bruised, bleeding, and out of breath. His eyes, though one was already swelling, were on Watson as he stopped in front of the group.

"You're still here, thank God!" The man gasped, then turned to Lestrade. "Trouble at _Willie's_, sir. Got it cleared up now, but Adams is down, and in bad shape, and Smith took a few hits when he insisted on dragging the fellow out of the fight after he went down.

Lestrade scowled, and turned to Watson. "I know you and Mr. Holmes just finished a case-" He began. Watson cut him off.

"I'll be glad to be able to help, Lestrade, you know that." Watson told him. Then he turned to look for Holmes, who had been waiting rather impatiently for his friend to finish speaking with Lestrade. "I'll see you at home, I suppose, Holmes, after I've seen to the Constables." He told the amateur detective. Holmes nodded, and the group made there way outside only to head their separate ways once there.

Watson, Evans, and Lestrade took a cab; Lestrade had followed in spite of the fact that he had already been up and about more than he should have. Evans was worried as they rode; Watson could not tell if Lestrade was.

They reached the bar and piled out of the cab. Lestrade was the last out, and paid the driver as he disembarked and asked the man to wait for their return.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	30. Chapter 30

Author's note: Sorry it's been so long. I know I've been negligent, but I've been busy with work and trying to get things ready for school and stuff like that. Not only that, but I'm going on vacation and will be at the beach all week, so you won't get any updates until sometime next week at the earliest. Sorry for the inconvenience, but I have left you with a few things before I go.

* * *

Adams and Smith were in worse shape than Evans had been. Bruised, bloodied, and unsteady, they were both sitting on the floor, their backs against the wall.

Smith had an arm around Adams, and seemed to be supporting the other man. They were talking in low voices-as we approached, and did not stop as we reached them.

Smith looked up at us, his face unreadable. "That was at Christmas." He said to Adams conversationally. "You never told me what happened there." As Adams started on some story or other, Smith addressed Watson. "Somebody hit him in the head with a bottle. I think he's got a concussion. And he's been stabbed in the shoulder." He added, as if as an afterthought.

That explained the blood leaking from the crude bandage that had been wrapped around the man's shoulder. "And yourself?" Watson asked as he knelt, ignoring the complaint from his leg as he did so.

"I think I landed rather hard on some broken glass." He admitted. "I was picking some of it out of my arm when Adams started trying to pass out on me. I'm fine, sir."

"I'll be the judge of that, Smith." Watson said lightly as he turned his attention to the other Constable.

"Yes, sir." Smith agreed with a chuckle. "Should you be out here, Inspector?" He asked, catching sight of Lestrade, who happened to be settling gratefully, if painfully, into a chair that Willie, the owner of the establishment, had brought over for him.

Lestrade offered Smith a glare in response to his question. "I told you to be careful, Smith."

"Yes, sir." Smith agreed. "I was, sir. I threw a chair at that man that had the knife instead of getting close enough for him to have a chance at me." He smiled up at the Inspector.

Lestrade was not amused. "And who knocked you down, may I ask?"

Smith shrugged. "Some fellow. He got upset when I wouldn't let him finish off Adams, sir."

"He does have a concussion." Watson informed Lestrade as he moved on to look at the man's shoulder. He had to remove a makeshift bandage from over the wound before he could take a look at it, but when he did he did not like what he saw.

Adams eyed his shoulder idly, but with little real concern. Either he had more faith in the Doctor's abilities than Watson himself did, or he was too out of it to realize just how badly he was injured. Watson hoped it was the former.

"Think this'll beat Evan's wound?" Adams asked Smith curiously as Watson got to work.

Smith shook his head. "You aren't in enough pain." He told the other Constable seriously. "Let Evans keep his hard earned bragging rights, poor fellow."

"I'm right here." Evans reminded them wearily.

"So you are." Adams grunted. It was the only indication he gave that he was aware of what Watson was doing to his injury. "And a right fright you are too, Constable."

"You ain't so pretty yourself." Evans sneered. Adams responded with a snort, while Smith actually laughed outright.

Lestrade sighed impatiently, and the three settled down. "How are you, Evans?" The Inspector asked.

Evans shrugged. "I got off easy. No broken bones, no major injuries. Just some cuts, bruises, and a bloody nose, sir."

"Then go home and get cleaned up, Evans, and quit hassling Smith and Adams."

Watson watched, a bit surprised, as the three Constables exchanged a glance, and Evans hesitated. "If you don't mind my saying so," Evans ventured cautiously, "I was just about to offer to help clean up Smith's arm, with the Doctor's permission, sir."

Lestrade considered this, then looked to Watson. "If you're careful about it, Evans." The Doctor agreed.

"Of course, Doctor." Evans replied. "It's not the first time I've had to pick glass out of someone."

"Doubt it'll be the last." Adams chimed in.

Evans set to his task with a will, and Smith set to grumbling under his breath.

There was another moment, as Watson started to stitch up Adams' shoulder, when it seemed to him as if the three Constables were trying to have a silent conversation without Lestrade noticing.

Finally, Smith cleared his throat. "Er, Inspector?" He asked, almost reluctantly.

"Smith?" Lestrade replied uneasily. He seemed to know something had just taken place, even if he didn't know what.

"Shouldn't your shift be about over by now, sir?" Smith asked. Without waiting for an answer, he pressed on. "I think everything is pretty well under control here, sir, so-" he faltered for less than a second before continuing, "so you don't really need to be here. Perhaps you should head on home, sir." He suggested at last, and the three Constables tensed.

Lestrade scowled at the three of them for a few seconds before he shrugged, got painfully to his feet, and bid them all good evening.

"Thank you, Doctor." He said, before turning back to the Constables. "Don't get killed on your way home." He growled. Then he left.

Watson was impressed. Evans favored Smith with a smug grin. "I told you he likes you two best."

"Nonsense." Smith retorted. "You just have to know how to handle the Inspector. And it never hurts when he knows you're right."

Evans rolled his eyes. "Smith and Adams _are_ his favorites." He told Watson.

Adams snorted weakly. "And by favorites Evans means that Lestrade likes to drag us along on the dangerous jobs because we're pretty good at not getting killed."

"It helps to know when to keep your mouth shut, too." Smith offered. "Lestrade doesn't care for small talk when there's work to be done."

Watson finished up sewing Adams' injury and began bandaging it again. When he had finished, he turned his attention to Smith's arm.

Evans had known what he was doing, and it was only a minute or two longer and Watson was wrapping his arm up as well.

Evans waved him off when the Doctor would have looked him over, and the three Constables got to their feet and thanked Watson for his help before Evans said goodbye and left and Smith promised he'd make sure Adams made it home.

"Goodnight, Doctor." Smith waved as he and Adams climbed into a cab. "Thanks again. Sorry to inconvenience you."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	31. Chapter 31

Author's note: I'm back, hopefully for good even with the new school semester looming...thanks to all of you who wished me a good time at the beach, it was a good time, but I was also glad to get home and sleep in my own bed.

* * *

"I'm busy." Lestrade snapped as he stepped past the two men and out into the hall. Holmes and Watson were left standing uncertainly in his office.

Holmes frowned and followed the Inspector out the door, Watson not far behind. "Lestrade-"

"Not now, Holmes." The man interrupted irritably. "Gregson!" He shouted at the Inspector in question's office. "Anything yet?"

Gregson seemed to appear out of thin air. "Evans swears they were together." He commented, ignoring the startled Doctor as he offered Lestrade a sheet of hastily scrawled notes. "We'll find them, Lestrade."

"What's going on?" Watson wanted to know.

Gregson and Lestrade exchanged a glance, but it was the fair haired Inspector that answered. "Someone's been making threats." He explained. "Against us. Against anyone that works here, that is." He clarified quickly. "Smith and Adams are missing."

"How long?" Holmes asked.

"Too long." Lestrade grumbled.

Gregson put a reassuring hand on the other Inspector's shoulder. "We'll find them." He said again. "They'll be alright."

Lestrade shrugged him off. "I'm not worried about Smith and Adams." He said.

"The Rookie was with them." Gregson added, for Holmes and Watson's benefit.

"I'm going after them." Lestrade decided. Gregson shook his head.

"You were specifically named in several letters, Lestrade." He reminded the other man, without much conviction. "They'll be looking for you."

Lestrade smiled grimly. "I'm counting on it."

Gregson sighed, but didn't argue. "Be careful." He admonished the other Inspector. Lestrade nodded, and was off without another word.

Jones and Bradstreet turned the corner, and wasted no time in diving out of Lestrade's way. Bradstreet looked confused as he and Jones reached the three men still standing in the hall, but Jones was wearing an almost evil smile.

"Lestrade went to bring the boys home?" He asked. At Gregson's nod, he chuckled. "Don't know what took him so long."

"Marshall specifically told him not to go out and make himself an easy target." Gregson replied. "But he's been chomping at the bit since the news came in."

Jones snorted. "So are we leaving this to Lestrade, or do_ we _get a chance at this piece of refuse as well?"

Gregson shrugged. "We weren't technically invited along." He said.

"He knows how we feel on the matter." Jones pointed out.

"True enough." Gregson agreed. "Let's go. Hold the fort." This last was directed to Bradstreet, who seemed to understand as little of the conversation as Holmes and Watson did.

"Sir?" Bradstreet ventured uncertainly.

It was Jones who answered. "Some fool decided to follow through on those threats we've been getting. I'm sure you've noticed by now that Lestrade tends to take it personal when someone messes with what he considers his people."

Bradstreet nodded. It was Gregson who spoke then, and what he said sent chills down the spines of the other three men present. "He's not the only one."

Jones and Gregson turned, and left Bradstreet standing there with Holmes and the doctor. When he had recovered himself, Bradstreet let out a low whistle. Someone was in serious trouble.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	32. Chapter 32

Author's note: I have finally updated the time-line on my profile, so my new stories should be on there too, if you want to take a look.

* * *

Six men sat in rather undignified positions on the floor in what might have been loosely defined as a circle. Had anyone from the Yard, or anyone who knew them at all been there, they would have been appalled at the way the men were sprawled out on the floor. None of those present, however, would have cared in the least.

"Sorry." It was Adams who apologized, though he couldn't quite master the energy required to actually sound remorseful. Lestrade managed to nod in reply, but nobody else gave any sign of acknowledging the apology.

Smith added a "thanks" several minutes later. He did not sound particularly grateful. He couldn't bring himself to care, either.

Mason, the Rookie, kept his mouth closed. He didn't have the energy to worry about the consequences of not only being taken hostage by the group that had recent been sending threatening messages to Scotland Yard and used for a bait for a trap for several Inspectors, but for dragging Inspector Lestrade's alleged favorite Constables (not that it showed, really) into it as well, never mind the fact that all six of them (Lestrade, Jones, Gregson, Adams, Smith, and Mason himself) had nearly been killed tonight.

A short distance away, slightly behind and to the left of Jones, one of their would-be assailants groaned and began to stir.

"That one's still alive." Gregson commented irritably.

Lestrade didn't bother to grumble that he didn't kill people if he could help it, whether he _wanted _to or not. He was supposed to be a good guy, after all.

"I'll take care of it." He said instead, and lurched to his feet. He stumbled wearily over to the body on the floor and kicked it. "Quiet." He growled. "You'll be still, if you know what's good for you." He wasn't _that_ much of a good guy, at least, not tonight.

The man seemed to realize it was in his best interest to remain still, for he did just that. Satisfied, Lestrade turned and started painfully for the door.

"Someone should go down to the Yard and send someone to clean all this up." He decided wearily.

"I guess that's you." Gregson roused himself enough to reply. "Don't collapse in the street on your way there." He added.

It was certainly a possibility.

"I'll try not to." Lestrade's response was less than reassuring. "I'll try to send a doctor along as well. Who _isn't_ injured?"

Tired as he was, Jones managed to snort at that. Nobody else could be bothered to comment.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	33. Chapter 33

Author's note: And this is what happens when I check my email after a long day and decide to write in the middle of the night when I should be sleeping. I somehow take a suggestion for 'most gruesome case' and turn it into 'most ridiculous arrest.' Oh well. Thanks anyways, mrspencil. Maybe I'll get to the gruesome in a later chapter.

* * *

"I had to arrest someone for stealing an umbrella once." Hopkins offered as Watson reached the table.

"I had to arrest someone for assault with and umbrella." Jones countered, and Hopkins made a face.

"What's going on? Watson asked as Bradstreet motioned for the two to sit down at the table.

"Most ridiculous arrest." He explained. "Whoever wins gets tomorrow off."

"What happens tomorrow?" Watson wondered aloud.

"Chief Superintendent Dickens pays a visit." Gregson supplied. "I once arrested a girl for impersonating herself." He added, earning himself a dark look from Jones.

"Holmes was once hired by the same person he was asked to find." Watson put in.

"Wait. He hired Holmes to find himself?" Hopkins was sure he wasn't _that_ drunk.

Watson nodded. "He wanted to see how good his disappearing attempt had been." He explained. "It wasn't good enough."

"Kidnapping a nun." Bradstreet offered, causing Hopkins to nearly lose his composure.

"Stealing a parakeet." Gregson tried again. This time Hopkins _did_ lose his composure.

"Attempted murder with a pocket watch." Jones countered.

Gregson stared. "The chain?" He guessed.

Jones snorted. "The watch."

"How on earth…" Gregson trailed off, preoccupied with trying to work out how exactly one went about beating someone to death with a pocket watch.

Watson suddenly realized that Lestrade had remained silent through the entire discussion, or at least, as much as he had been present for.

So did Jones. "You're awfully quiet, Lestrade. Nothing to add?"

Gregson choked. "Oh, he's got one." He said. Then he swore. "I'd forgotten about that one." He glowered at the smaller Inspector.

"What one?" Hopkins wanted to know. "What was it?"

Lestrade smiled and finished off his drink.

"Public intoxication, public indecency, assault with a bouquet of flowers, and attempted murder with a chamber pot." He said nonchalantly.

Everyone stared except Gregson. "You have to explain that one, you know." He said pleasantly, and Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"He was drunk." He said. "And naked as a jay bird when he walked into the restaurant. He grabbed a bouquet of flowers from a young lady and attacked with them. When they were removed from his person he started brandishing the chamber pot he'd gotten from who knows where and had actually been carrying with him for some reason that only God knows."

"So you arrested him." Bradstreet said, to be certain he had the story straight. "For public intoxication, public indecency, and assault, but attempted murder?"

Lestrade shrugged. "He told me to rot in hell right before he swung the chamber pot at my head, and when he missed and fell he started screaming that he would kill me." Lestrade looked thoughtful. "I forgot to charge him for biting my ankle."

"He _bit_ your ankle?" Hopkins was skeptical.

"It got infected." Gregson recalled, defending Lestrade. "It was deep, too, if I remember. Didn't you spend a week or so limping?"

"It left a scar." Lestrade added absently. "I use it for demonstration purposes when the Rookies refuse to believe that the human mouth can be dangerous."

"Wish someone had told _me_ that." Jones complained.

"Who bit _you?" _Gregson wanted to know.

"My daughter." Jones retorted. "So Lestrade wins, then?" He asked. The others complained, but nobody argued with Jones' decision.

Lestrade grinned smugly, excused himself, and headed home. The others watched him go.

"I think he deserves to win after going through something like that." Bradstreet declared. "When did this happen?"

"My first week as an Inspector." Gregson replied. "It was an interesting week."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	34. Chapter 34

Author's note: Thanks again, mrspencil. You do have such wonderful ideas.

* * *

"Johhny, I swear, if you don't behave yourself the big policeman next door is going to come and take you away to jail!"

Bradstreet's first reaction was to freeze. His second was to duck around the corner, out of sight, and wonder if he had really heard his neighbor correctly.

He knew he had. His hearing was pretty good. His listening skills were also well developed. He had really heard what he had just heard.

Bradstreet had been neighbors with Jeremy Michaels for nearly seven years. They had been wishing each other good day, discussing the weather, and comparing bad days at work for nearly at long.

Jeremy's wife, Clarice, gossiped, giggled, and plotted with Missy, Bradstreet's wife, every day. Jeremy's son, Johnny, played in Bradstreet's yard as much as he played in his own.

All in all, the two had been the best example of good neighbors a person could ask for, Jeremy and Bradstreet.

So what the devil was Jeremy's problem now?

Bradstreet took a breath and wondered if he were overreacting. Maybe he was being too sensitive.

The words echoed again in his brain, taunting him.

It was one of the lesser known nightmares among members of the police force.

Bradstreet was taken aback.

Nobody likes being the bad guy. They were supposed to be the good guys, even if it didn't always seem that way to the general public.

They did their best to keep the streets safe, to protect people. Occasionally they had to look like the bad guys. That was okay. They dealt with it.

But this-

This definitely didn't help.

It was depressing, on the occasions that it happened, to have a child take one look at you and run and hid behind his parents, whimpering all the while that they would be good, just please don't take them away.

Bradstreet was still standing in the same place when Jeremy came around the corner. "Roger." He greeted Bradstreet cheerfully, unaware that the other man had overheard him.

"Jeremy." He managed. He debated on whether or not he should say anything.

Johnny came around the corner just behind his father. He saw Bradstreet, gulped, and declared, "I'll be good! Honest!"

Jeremy winced, and Bradstreet gave him a hard look. "I am not someone to threaten your child with." He informed the other man coolly.

Jeremy had the decency to look embarrassed. "Er…" He fumbled for something to say. "Sorry." He finally managed. "I didn't think-"

"Exactly." Bradstreet cut him off. "You _didn't_ think. We're supposed to be good, not terrifying to small children. What happens if he gets lost? Do you know how hard it is to get a lost child home when he won't tell us where he lives or who his parents are because he's too worried that we're going to drag him off to jail for not minding?" He sighed. "I'll see you later, Jeremy, I have to get to work. Have a nice day."

"You too." Jeremy called after Bradstreet uncertainly. The Inspector simply shook his head.

It _had _been a nice day, until now.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	35. Chapter 35

Superintendent Marshall met his superior at the door with a smile that was just a little put on. "Chief Superintendent." He greeted the man. "How are you this morning?"

Chief Superintendent Dickens offered the other man his own slightly fake smile as he replied. "Well enough. And yourself?"

"Well enough." Marshall echoed the man. "I could show you around, if you'd like." He offered. He did not want the man snooping around in his department without _someone_ to keep an eye on him. Dickens could understand that.

He also knew the best way to get an idea of what a department was really like was not to go around announced as the Chief Superintendent. He proposed a compromise. "I'm sure you have other things to do than spend the day keeping an eye on your superior." He suggested, and Marshall shifted uncomfortably. "Perhaps you have someone else who is not quite as busy, or as notable, who could do the honors."

Marshall frowned; he was not entirely sure it was a good idea for the other man to go around incognito, but to refuse would cause ill feelings and perhaps even worse problems later. Besides, Dickens _was_ offering to work with him on this.

"Very good, sir." He accepted the offer. "I could have Constable Evans show you around."

Dickens nodded. "That will do nicely, Superintendent."

Constable Mark Evans _did_ do nicely. He did not ask who the man he would be showing around was, but perhaps he had picked up on the fact that Marshall did not want to explain. Whatever the reason, he offered the Chief Superintendent a friendly enough grin and beckoned him to follow.

Dickens mingled with the Constables first; they seemed to be largely inclined to believe that the young Chief Superintendent was actually either a citizen considering joining the force or a Rookie who had _just_ joined the force. It was in Dickens' best interest to allow them to assume as much, so he did not bother to set them straight.

He did spare a moment to wonder if he really looked that young. He was admittedly young for his position, or at least, he had been told so on numerous occasions, but he knew his job well enough, and had eventually gained the grudging acceptance of those he worked with.

He shrugged it off as two Constables centered in on Evans and himself. "Been given tour duty again?" One of them asked Constable Evans. "You need to have one of the Inspectors put in a good word for you."

Evans shrugged in reply. "Who am I going to ask? I'm still in disgrace over that incident with Hopkins, you know. The Inspectors don't like it when one of their own nearly gets killed because of something one of the Constables has done."

The other of the two laughed. "They'll get over it." He assured Evans. "And they'll realize it wasn't your fault." He smiled at Dickens. "I'm Adams, by the way. That's Smith." The other man nodded.

"They've spent too much time with Lestrade." Evans offered. "They've picked up his habit of not offering a first name."

Smith rolled his eyes. "I'm Matt. That's Terry. We both prefer to use our last names." He said as Adams shot him a dark look. "Did you ever figure out what Lestrade's first name is, by the way?"

"It begins with a G." Evans offered. "That's all I've figured out."

Adams chuckled. "And that's all you ever will, Evans. You aren't special enough to know his first name." He joked.

Smith shook his head in amusement. "Better get a move on, Evans. You know nobody's actually interested in us Constables. He wants to see the Inspectors in their natural habitat."

"I like you two better when Inspector Lestrade's around." Evans grumbled. "You don't talk nearly as much." Catching Dickens' puzzled expression, he explained as he led the man away from the Constables. "Lestrade doesn't really care for conversation that doesn't pertain to the job. If you work with him you keep your mouth shut and do what you're told."

"Ah." Dickens commented as Evans peeked his head tentatively through an open doorway.

"Are you busy, Inspector?" Dickens was left standing in the hall as Evans inquired of the Inspector. He must have been beckoned in, because a second later the Constable gestured for Dickens to follow him inside the office.

"Showing him the ropes?" The Inspector asked, looking up from his paperwork. There was a twinkle in the man's eyes, and he had the sort of face that could break into a smile at any moment. He was also apparently not above 'chatting' with those of lower rank. "What do you think so far?"

This was directed at Dickens. He was not entirely certain how to reply. The Inspector smiled and shrugged. "Have a seat." He told them. "You'll figure out how you feel sooner or later, I'll wager." He paused for a moment, considering. "Of course, there are some things here I still don't know how _I_ feel about." He admitted cheerfully. "I'm Bradstreet, by the way."

"Hopkins is fine." Inspector Bradstreet told Evans. "He's also trying to convince Jones and Gregson it wasn't your fault." Evans opened his mouth, and promptly closed it. Bradstreet answered the unasked question anyway. "Lestrade isn't here to be convinced. He's off today. He also probably already knows."

"What happened?" Dickens asked, and Evans winced.

Bradstreet shrugged. "I wasn't there, how should I know?" He lied amiably. "I just know that Hopkins told Jones to sod off this morning when he started grumbling about Evans here."

Evans relaxed, minutely, and Dickens made a note of the fact that this Inspector, at least, appeared to be protective of the people he worked with. Dickens had little doubt that this extended to all the Constables, and not just this one. He wondered if the other Inspectors were included in this.

He looked up as a strong looking, fair haired gentleman entered the Inspector's office without bothering to knock or announce himself, a cup of tea in each hand. He offered one to Bradstreet, who accepted it, and settled down in the chair Evans had vacated immediately upon the newcomer's arrival.

"Why are you bringing me tea?" Bradstreet inquired, a bit curious.

"Because I like you best." The other man retorted. "Hopkins and Jones are driving me insane." He admitted.

"They're still going at it?" Bradstreet asked, eyes widening. Evans reddened. "This is Inspector Gregson." He added, for Dickens' benefit. His next statement was for Gregson's. "Evans is showing him around."

"He's not with the press?" Gregson inquired lightly, as if he weren't bracing himself to make a run for the door. Dickens quickly shook his head.

Reassured, Gregson nodded to Dickens, then promptly proceeded to ignore him. "So Hopkins hasn't convinced Jones?" Bradstreet wanted to know.

"He thinks Hopkins is being too forgiving. So are you, for that matter." Gregson replied.

"Hmmm..." Bradstreet took a sip of his tea thoughtfully. "And what do _you_ think?"

Gregson rolled his eyes. "It doesn't matter what I think." He declared. "Lestrade doesn't think Evans is to blame for what happened, and he knows better than I do what went on."

"But you can't convince Jones of that." Bradstreet realized.

Gregson shook his head. "Lestrade can deal with _that_ too." He declared. "Jones might actually listen to him."

"Lestrade will refuse to discuss the incident until someone brings it up in his presence." Bradstreet offered. "Then he'll let whoever brought it up have it."

There was a shout out in the hall, and Evans dashed for the door as if he had been shot. He disappeared from view without even a backwards glance at the man he was supposed to be showing around.

Gregson and Bradstreet went on drinking their tea as if nothing had happened.

Dickens cleared his throat. He had been silent long enough. Gregson turned to look at the Chief Superintendent. "He'll be back. Don't worry."

Bradstreet considered him briefly. "Of course, that leaves him in my office for who knows how long." He commented with a lack of any real concern.

"We could take him to see the fun." Gregson suggested. "He did come to see what goes on around here. Bradstreet grinned at the idea and stood.

"Come on, then." He said, heading for the door. Dickens followed, the other Inspector not far behind him.

The stopped right out in the hall just in time to see Evans jump back as someone shouted, "Watch yourself, he's armed!" Two heads popped out of offices further down that hall at that.

"I noticed that, sir!" The Constable replied, perhaps a trifle insubordinately, as he considered the nasty piece of work that was currently brandishing a knife at him. The Constable addressed his would be assailant. "You might as well give in." He told the man. "Even if you do manage to stab me, you had the bad luck to turn right down the Inspectors' hall, and you don't have a chance of getting past all of them."

"I took care of the one easily enough." The man grunted, swinging once more at Evans.

"Which will only get you into more trouble down here." Evans replied matter-of-factly. "Fortunately for you, the Inspector seems relatively unharmed." He said nodding to the figure that was approaching the escapee from behind.

The man turned, and swore at the approaching Inspector as Evans took advantage of his distraction and caught him in the back of the head with his truncheon. The man crumpled to the floor between Constable and Inspector.

The Inspector nodded briskly to Evans as the Constable darted forward to cuff the fallen man and claim the dropped knife. "Take him back to a cell." He grunted, relieving Evans of the weapon. Evans didn't bat an eye, but bent willingly to the task.

Bradstreet shook his head in amusement and stepped forward to help the Constable with his burden. The other Inspector looked uncomfortable as Bradstreet muttered something under his breath, but came to stand wearily beside Gregson.

"Aren't you off today?" Gregson inquired cheerfully. The smaller Inspector glared at him while he tried to catch his breath.

"Yes." Was all the man said. His reaction seemed to amuse the other Inspector.

"So was it Holmes, Hopkins, or Jones this time?" He wanted to know.

One of the spectators down the hall reacted to that. "I didn't call him out." The younger man declared as he left the safety of his office to join the group.

"This time." The other pointed out as he followed. The younger rolled his eyes at the clarification.

"So it was Holmes." Gregson said, but his companion shook his head. The action seemed to have some hidden meaning, for the four Inspectors were suddenly grim. Dickens was curious, but Gregson had apparently decided it was time to change the subject. "This is Dickens, by the way. Evans was showing him around before you commandeered him, Lestrade." Gregson turned to the Chief Superintendent. "This is Hopkins, Jones, and Lestrade." He indicated each of the men in turn.

Lestrade was staring. He turned to fix Gregson with a glare that was downright evil. "Do you know who that is?" He wanted to know.

Gregson hesitated, suddenly wary, and Dickens tried to recall if he had ever seen the smaller Inspector before. Both Hopkins and Jones wore suddenly closed expressions.

Lestrade barely managed not to groan. "Who was supposed to be paying us a visit today, Gregson?" He demanded, and Gregson _did_ groan.

"Oh." He said, and Hopkins nearly choked. Jones simply scowled.

Lestrade shook his head in disbelief. Then he turned to address Dickens. "If you'll excuse me, Chief Superintendent." He said, offering the man a brisk nod. "Enjoy your visit."

The Inspector strode off without another word. None of those remaining seemed at all surprised by his actions.

"Was he bleeding?" Hopkins finally asked, when the man had disappeared.

"Probably." Gregson replied, turning his attention back to Dickens. "Do you want to wait for Evans to return, or is there much point, now that the cat's out of the bag?"

Dickens was not entirely certain how to answer that.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	36. Chapter 36

Bradstreet sprawled on the floor of the cell, looking for all the world like the drunken sod the Surrey Constabulary had mistaken him for when they had arrested him.

Hopkins possessed one end of a bench, leaning into the corner of the cell, trying not to yawn any more than he already had in the last couple hours, and trying to look more alert than he currently felt.

Gregson had claimed the other end of the bench, his face blank and expressionless, his body relaxed as if he had simply stopped by for a visit and could leave any time he so chose.

Jones remained standing, and would have paced, had there been room. As it was he had retreated to a corner and was glaring at the rather burly Constable that was to be keeping an eye on them. The Constable also had the misfortune of being the man that had relieved Jones of a rather nasty looking knife before shoving him unceremoniously into the cell with his mates.

"'Strade's gonna kill us, in't 'e? Said not t' make 'im come after us." Bradstreet slurred nearly unintelligibly, and Gregson wondered once again how hard he had been hit and if he should not check the other man for further injury. But Bradstreet had told him to shove off, and given him a shove as well, when he had tried to do as much earlier, and Gregson had no intention of getting the normally easygoing man riled up.

"Think he knew?" Hopkins yawned.

"If he'd known he wouldn't have sent us." Gregson replied wearily. "He'd have just gone himself. When's the last time you slept, lad?" Hopkins shrugged; he couldn't remember.

Gregson didn't actually frown. It was never a good thing when Hopkins couldn't remember the last time he'd slept.

Gregson didn't sigh either. He wanted to tell Jones to quit sulking over his knife, but that wouldn't do anyone any good, so he ignored the other man.

He wondered, in light of the lack of either reason or cooperation from the Surrey Police Station regarding their situation, how long it would take for Lestrade to realize something had happened and come out after them. He also wondered if that was actually something to be desired.

They had been stretched far too thin of late.

Hence the fact that four Inspectors had followed two murderers to Surrey instead of Hopkins simply taking a group of Constables along to apprehend two men who had already proved back in London to be more than a match for most. There hadn't been any Constables to spare, and the four Inspectors were supposed to have gotten their men and been back by morning, preferably _without_ involving the local police.

Those two men had unfortunately also proved to be more than a match for four Inspectors as well, and everything had gone downhill from there. The Surrey police had gotten involved, and now Gregson was sitting in a cell with his fellow Inspectors, trying not to think about the cell full of lively drunks on one side of them and the two murderers they had been after on the other side.

At least _they_ hadn't gotten away. Gregson supposed that counted for _something_.

Gregson figured that Lestrade would notice when they weren't back by morning and be after them on the first train out. He also figured that when the man showed up around mid morning, he would not be happy.

Gregson eyed Bradstreet, who was going nowhere, glanced over at Jones, who was livid but still sensible enough to refrain from doing anything more than sulk, and turned his attention over to Hopkins.

"Get some sleep, lad." He told the younger man. "We're going to be here all night."

Hopkins nodded, sighed in resignation, and leaned back and closed his eyes. Gregson wished he follow suit, but someone needed to keep an eye on the other two Inspectors.

He settled back for a long wait.

He must have dozed off at some point, because he started awake at the sound of a door opening and approaching footsteps.

"Your keys." Gregson recognized the voice before he recognized the man glaring at their guard. "Now." He barked, when the Constable hesitated.

"Who-?"

"Inspector Lestrade." The man interrupted. "Scotland Yard." He held out a hand for the man's keys, but the Constable was not ready to cooperate just yet.

"These men-"

"Are also from the Yard, here on my orders." Lestrade explained impatiently.

He was sweating, Gregson realized. It was the middle of winter and the man was sweating. He was also pale, Gregson now noticed, and the dark circles under his eyes were considerably more pronounced than was usual for the Inspector.

"I can't-" The Constable tried to protest; Lestrade again cut him off.

"Then find someone who _can_ release them. Be quick about it." The Constable cast a dubious look in our direction, looked back down at Lestrade, and darted off, successfully cowed by the Inspector.

He wasn't really wearing his coat; it was just sort of thrown over his shoulders. One arm was in its sleeve where it belonged, but his left elbow was only half tucked into the other sleeve. It was not an efficient way to wear a coat, nor was it a way that Gregson would ever have thought to see the other Inspector wear his.

Lestrade's eyes sought Gregson's; they glittered oddly as he waited for some sort of report from the latter.

"Hopkins can't remember the last time he slept." Gregson offered. "I told him to get some rest." Lestrade's eyes darted over to the still slumbering Inspector before returning to focus on Gregson. "Your Constable friend took Jones' knife, and he's livid." He continued.

"Sit down, Jones." Lestrade snapped at the glowering man. Jones considered swearing at the man, but obeyed, seating himself between Gregson and Hopkins. "What happened to Bradstreet?"

Gregson shrugged. "He told me to shove off." He said.

Lestrade scowled at the prone figure on the floor. "Look him over." He growled. Gregson moved to do so. Predictably, Bradstreet stirred and began protesting. "Shut up." Lestrade snapped, and Bradstreet was still. However out of it the man was, he knew better than to argue with Lestrade right now.

"Who are you?" A plains-clothes man demanded of Lestrade as he bustled in, hassled Constable in tow. He all but towered over Lestrade, but the smaller man refused to be intimidated as he looked up at the man who was standing far closer than most people in their right minds would be willing to get when Lestrade was as irate as he currently was.

"Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard." He answered, his voice surprisingly low. The hairs on the back of Gregson's neck raised as half-remembered incidents from early in his association with the man once again refused to be either clearly remembered or entirely forgotten. "And you are?"

"Inspector Baynes." The larger man introduced himself.

"Oh." Lestrade's acknowledgement was less that polite. "May I ask why you are holding four members of Scotland Yard in your cells, Inspector Baynes?" He asked, his tone almost conversational.

Inspector Baynes did not seem to realize the predicament he was currently in. "Who?" He asked, frowning. He looked a bit puzzled. Lestrade nodded toward the four Inspectors. "Oh. They were involved in a fistfight at one of the local taverns, Inspector Lestrade." He explained. "We rounded up those involved and set them in there to settle down."

One of the drunks smiled and waved amiably. His smile faded almost immediately as Lestrade turned his gaze in the drunk's direction, and he shuffled off to somewhere out of the angry Inspector's way.

Lestrade then turned his gaze on Gregson. "We tried to explain the situation." He offered. "Unfortunately, Bradstreet seemed to do more harm than good."

"S'right." Bradstreet managed to pipe up, but quickly quieted himself as he caught sight of Lestrade's expression.

Lestrade turned back to Baynes. "They told you who they were and why they were here?"

Baynes sighed. "Look, Lestrade. I had a fight and a group of unruly, bloodied men, all of whom reeked of alcohol. You don't mean to tell me you would have taken them seriously had it been you?" He laughed at the apparent absurdity of the notion.

Lestrade was not amused. "They aren't from around here." He pointed out. "They also behaved rather rationally for a bunch of drunks." He added. "At least, I'm assuming they did; they know better than to give the local police a difficult time."

"We tried to explain ourselves." Gregson assured the two Inspectors who were _not_ currently imprisoned. "We didn't physically resist the police. We aren't _stupid_."

Lestrade barely managed not to react to that assertion as he turned back to Inspector Baynes. "If you would release them," he suggested in a tone that indicated it was not really a suggestion, "we can be on our way back to London and out of your hair. Them too." He pointed to the two murderers in the adjacent cell.

Baynes colored. "Now just a minute, Mr. Lestrade," He protested, "you can't just barge in here and start making demands."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "I am _requesting_ that you release these men and turn those two over into my custody." He corrected the offended Inspector. "When I start making _demands_, I'll go to a higher authority than the _Inspector_ that made the arrests." He took a step closer to the already too close man and glared up at him. "And if I have to waste time going over your head while _five_ Inspectors are absent from Scotland Yard, which has been stretched to the breaking point these past few weeks, then rest assured I will make it worth my while, and what started out as merely a minor misunderstanding could easily be blown into a prime example of lack of cooperation between our branch of the force and the Surrey branch, for which _you, _Inspector Baynes, will be primarily responsible." Again he held out his hand for the Constable's keys.

Baynes had gone red in the face. "I don't know who you think you are, Inspector-" He began, but Lestrade cut him off.

"I ran out of my store of patience for the month yesterday, Inspector." He growled. "You either unlock that cell door now or your Constable here can take me down to pay a visit to Superintendent West."

The color rapidly drained out of Inspector Baynes' face. He was white as a ghost as he gestured for the Constable to unlock the cell.

The Constable fumbled with trembling hands to turn the key in the lock; Gregson was tempted to take the key from the man and do it himself, but sensed that enough damage had been done here already.

He elbowed Hopkins awake and enlisted his assistance in helping a still unsteady Bradstreet (the man seemed to have a minor concussion) to his feet and out of their cell.

The nervous Constable offered a surly Inspector Jones his knife back; the man took it, but was smart enough not to comment as he returned it to his pocket. Lestrade looked toward the murderers, back to the four Constables, and sighed.

"I'll send someone for those two, if you'll hold them." He said to Baynes, sounding for all the world as if nothing had just happened between the two of them. "We have a case against them, murder." He explained.

Inspector Baynes simply nodded. He did not trust himself to say anything else as the four Inspectors wasted no time in bidding Inspector and Constable good day and departing.

Lestrade did not speak a word to any of them during the entire trip home. He sat huddled in his seat on the train, glaring at nothing in particular and grimacing occasionally as they bounced and rattled along.

He was ill, Gregson suddenly realized, and wondered how he had not noticed it before. He also wondered how long the man had been ignoring it and how long he had been away from home for his wife not to have noticed and addressed the issue.

"What happened to your arm?" He asked as Lestrade caught him staring.

"A chair." Lestrade grunted. He did not explain further, nor did Gregson ask for clarification.

"You don't look well." He said instead.

"I told you I didn't want to have to come after you." He grumbled. Gregson ignored what was almost an accusation.

"No chance of you calling in sick tomorrow, I'd wager." Lestrade responded with a dark look that did not intimidate his fellow Inspector in the slightest. "You could at least manage to be an hour late." He suggested, and Lestrade rolled his eyes. "You are going home tonight, aren't you?" He demanded, catching on.

Lestrade shrugged. "If I have time."

"Make time." Gregson told him flatly. "You have to make time for your family, Lestrade, and for yourself. You're no good to anybody if you run yourself down and end up in the hospital."

Lestrade scoffed. "When have I ever been sick enough to go to a hospital?" He demanded. Gregson had no answer to that.

"Go home tonight, Giles." He ordered. "Go home, or I'll send a message to your wife telling her you're sick."

Lestrade glowered at the other man, but did not argue. Gregson offered him what was calculated to be an annoyingly cheerful grin. "So our good friend Inspector West made it to Superintendent." He commented idly. He had not known West was with the Surrey police. "Isn't he getting old by now?"

"Superintedent is still a demotion." Lestrade grumbled. "And he could still take both of us without breaking a sweat."

Gregson had to admit that Lestrade was probably right on that count.


	37. Chapter 37

Gregson debated sending a message home to Lestrade's wife anyway. The sad truth of the matter was that they simply could not afford to have Lestrade home sick right now.

They could, however, confine the man to his office, paperwork, and a pot of tea, and they did. Lestrade was actually feeling poorly enough that he didn't bother arguing. He didn't have the energy to do so anyway, and he really couldn't bring himself to care much about anything by that point.

"I wish we could get one of those calm spells that Mr. Holmes complains about." Hopkins commented as he and Bradstreet crossed paths in the hall. "Did you know the _Superintendent _has taken on a case or two?"

"And Lestrade has reluctantly turned over a few to Smith and Adams." Bradstreet offered in reply before he was gone.

The two Constables were more than Capable, Hopkins knew. They'd been working closely with Lestrade for years, and a person had to be a complete idiot not to have learned _something_ during that time.

Adams and Smith both probably could have been promoted by this time, if they had wanted it. But they were young, and seemed to be content to bide their time.

Evans, though not as bright as Smith or Adams, was also rapidly on his way to becoming more than capable of dealing with whatever was thrown his way. His common sense was perhaps a bit lacking at times, but a few memorable lectures from Lestrade or Gregson, or even from Jones (if properly provoked), could eventually make up for what the man lacked.

Hopkins couldn't open his mouth anymore without hearing Lestrade telling him to hold his tongue half the time.

The Constable in question was approaching Hopkins now. "Mr. Holmes is here, Inspector." Evans was not one to forget to tack on that Inspector, or Constable, or Superintendent, not while on the job. "Inspector Gregson is out, so I took the liberty of redirecting him from Inspector Lestrade's office to yours." He hesitated for a fraction of a second. "Was that remiss of me, Inspector?" He asked.

Hopkins shook his head and mentally rearranged his plans for the day. "Not at all, Evans." He assured the Constable. "Thank you."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	38. Chapter 38

"But why does he carry a gun?" Hopkins finally asked the question that had been plaguing him for years. "Nobody else here does."

Instead of answering, Gregson began uncharacteristically counting on his fingers. Jones snorted. "You're going to need more fingers." He advised.

"It _is_ unusual." Bradstreet commented idly, setting down his drink. "Has he always carried a gun?"

"For as long as I've known him, yes." Jones offered. Gregson was still oddly distracted by his fingers.

Hopkins gave the older Inspector an odd look that he failed to notice; Bradstreet grinned and elbowed him in the arm.

Gregson looked up, slightly annoyed. "I think it was seven." He said. Nobody knew what he was talking about. "He denied the eighth."

"Seven what?" Jones demanded, curious.

"I _think_ it was seven." Gregson repeated. "Don't hold me to it." Jones shot him a glare, and Gregson rolled his eyes. "I think seven was the number of times someone tried to kill him that first month I was an Inspector."

"That's why he carries a gun?" Hopkins was slightly confused.

Gregson sighed. "Not exactly." He admitted. "From what I understand, the number of attempts dropped after he started going armed. No one wanted to get shot."

"Or, at least," he added after a moment, "they were more careful in their attempts."

Bradstreet sensed that they were only getting half the story. "Who, exactly, are _they_?" He asked.

Gregson looked at the younger man. "I became an Inspector right around the time they were trying to clean out the corruption that had run rampant through the Yard for years." He said, his voice low. "Lestrade was one of the men involved in that effort."

"I was the scapegoat." Lestrade had joined them at last. The others didn't bother trying to pretend they hadn't just been talking about him. There was no point in doing so. "I was young and expendable. What brought this on?"

"They want to know why you carry a gun." Gregson told him.

"And you told them it was because I was tired of being accosted in lonely corridors down at the Yard." Lestrade guessed.

"Not in so many words." Gregson admitted. "I always wondered, though, wouldn't a knife have been just as effective a deterrent?"

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "If I brandished a knife at you, would it stop _you_?"

"Probably not." Gregson conceded.

"And then, after they don't stop, I still have to deal with them." Lestrade explained. "A gun will stop most sane people in their tracks, and then I don't have to try to incapacitate them and worry about one of us getting hurt."

Gregson grinned. "Incapacitate? Have you been studying the dictionary lately?" He taunted the other man.

"My son learned it somewhere." Lestrade admitted without embarrassment. "He's been making use of it every chance he gets."

Gregson chuckled. Hopkins and Bradstreet were a little wary of this new development. Jones was suspicious.

"What puts you in such a good mood today?" The latter demanded, eyeing the other Inspector critically.

Lestrade smiled enigmatically, but did not answer. Dark eyes glittered mischievously as he considered the beverage before him and eventually decided to take a drink.

"You solved the case." Gregson realized. "You figured it out."

Lestrade nodded, looking rather smug. "I was right." He offered cryptically, but when pressed, would say no more.

Gregson laughed to himself at the thought of Lestrade _finally_ coming off the victor in the unspoken battle that usually ensued when Holmes had one theory about a case and the Inspector had another.

After all, the man couldn't be wrong _every_ time, and not even Sherlock Holmes could always be right.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	39. Chapter 39

Author's note: Since Halloween is coming up, I thought I'd do something sort of seasonal. It isn't much, but I hope you like it anyway.

* * *

Inspector Athelney Jones stopped and turned when he realized he was no longer being followed. He looked back at his two companions.

"Is there a problem?" He inquired sharply.

Hopkins flushed. "That's a graveyard." He pointed out.

"And?" Jones pressed.

"It's a full moon." Hopkins reluctantly explained with a shudder. Beside him Bradstreet shivered in agreement.

Jones rolled his eyes. "Don't tell me you believe in ghosts." Bradstreet and Hopkins exchanged an uneasy glance.

"Strange things happen when the moon is full." Bradstreet defended himself and his comrade.

Jones didn't deny the statement, but he did scoff at the other Inspector. "Magic now?" He sneered. Hopkins looked, if possible, even more flustered.

Jones sighed and wondered why he always ended up with superstitious people in these types of situations. "Do you want to just leave them in there?" He snapped.

Both Inspectors hardened instantly. "No." Hopkins grumbled. Bradstreet sighed.

"Let's just get this over with." He said. He and Hopkins crossed over into the cemetery. They followed Jones through the darkness, the hair prickling on the back of their necks.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	40. Chapter 40

Author's note: More seasonal fun.

* * *

The circle of half naked figures dancing around the ancient tree in the middle of the graveyard was enough to send shivers down even Jones' spine, and the one standing before the tree, facing it, was enough to make his heart race.

He could see something tied to the tree, sagging against the ropes as if unconscious, and he hoped that the flash of steel in the hand of the demon facing the restrained figure and the continued chanting meant that the ritual had not yet been completed.

They had been wrong; the final ritual was not set for the end of the month. It was driven by the moon, which made sense now that he considered the murdered and mutilated animals they had found during various phases of the moon.

Jones had a sinking feeling that he knew who the intended victim was as surely as he knew why he was the one standing here in the middle of the graveyard on the night of the full moon. He wondered, briefly, what had happened to the other missing Inspector.

Behind him he heard Hopkins uttered a prayer; Bradstreet mumbled an 'Amen' after him. Jones took a deep, steadying breath and stepped forward.

"That's quite enough of that!" He declared, and the chanting stopped. The dancing stopped as well. He could feel the eyes of those involved in this would-be sacrifice rest on him. "You're under arrest." He informed them. "I would advise against resisting."

The circle scattered. Jones was not immensely worried. They had left every exit from the graveyard guarded by Constables, and few places along the perimeter that were not exits as well. His main concern was with the leader of the group and the rather nasty knife he carried with him.

Jones approached the man before he could decide to go for his intended victim. The half naked woman hissed and lunged. Jones did not turn quickly enough; the knife sliced through his jacket and into his arm.

He ignored it for now and hit the woman-he didn't care if she _was_ a woman at that point-full in the face. There was a choked cry, a spray of blood, and the she-demon went down, clutching at her face and alternately whimpering and uttering curses at the Inspector.

Jones was more interested in the man currently tied to the tree. His own knife cut through the ropes as almost as well as the other had cut through his skin. He caught the newly freed man as he fell and eased him to the ground.

"Hopkins!" He bellowed. "Send for a doctor!"

Hopkins did not need to be told twice. The pale, still form of Inspector Gregson clutched in the arms of a grim Inspector Jones was plenty of incentive.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	41. Chapter 41

Author's note: And in the Halloween spirit, here's a bit more.

* * *

"You're bleeding." It seemed far too long before Doctor Watson was kneeling beside Jones, Hopkins half a step behind him.

"Never mind that." Jones told him brusquely. "That's not why I sent for you."

Watson knew; he was already examining Gregson. He took the man's pulse, listened to his breathing, and peeled back the man's eyelids to look into his eyes. It was only the work of a few minutes before the doctor came to his conclusion. "He's been drugged."

Behind him Jones heard Bradstreet and Hopkins both breathe a sigh of relief. The Inspector had seemed far too still, far too pale. Jones didn't point out that being drugged was not necessarily much better than whatever else they had feared, but turned his head to see why they were still here instead of dragging Gregson's would be murderer off to a cell.

Their eyes met his, and the two men turned their attention back to their duty while Watson muttered that Gregson should be fine, but he would like to take the Inspector back to Baker Street where he could keep an eye on him.

Jones nodded, and between the two of them they managed to carry the unconscious Inspector outside of the graveyard and to the street where apparently Hopkins had informed the cab he and Watson had brought here to wait, and had been threatening enough in the admonishment that the driver had actually stayed.

"I want to look at your arm." Watson said as he realized Jones had no intention of going to Baker Street with him.

"I have work to do here." Jones told him, and Watson frowned. Jones turned and headed back to help Constables deal with the aftermath of the interrupted sacrificial ritual.

"Come by when you're done." He heard Watson call.

He probably would. Jones didn't care for the man, hadn't since _The Sign of Four_ had come out, but there was no denying that he was an excellent doctor. There was a reason he was referred to by some as _Lestrade's physician of choice, _a title all the more impressive when you knew that before Watson had come along Lestrade was more likely to ignore sustained injuries until he eventually collapsed from them than to go see a doctor.

Jones had no aversion to doctors, but he still agreed with Lestrade that Watson was one of the best. He also still did not care for the man.

He also still had work to do. The ritual had been stopped, and _Gregson_ had been recovered, but the fact remained that Gregson had not gone out alone and Lestrade was still nowhere to be found.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	42. Chapter 42

Author's note: And in the Halloween spirit, here's a bit more.

* * *

Jones had been admittedly relieved when Gregson woke up. He had _not_ been relieved when Gregson's first action upon awakening was to sit up, demand to know where Lestrade was, and then try to stand and nearly end up flat on his face in the sitting room floor of 221b Baker Street.

He had been quickly reassured to learn that Gregson knew what his captors had done with Lestrade. He had _not_ been reassured to find out what.

He called back to Doctor Watson that he didn't care if the man was done stitching him up or not as he left the abode of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson and headed back towards the graveyard to retrieve the missing Inspector.

Lestrade looked up from his seat in the corner of the crypt, blinking in the light. "I don't believe in ghosts," he informed Jones irritably, "so if you are one, kindly go away."

"Aren't you and Gregson always lecturing on being more careful?" Jones retorted, offering the other Inspector, who looked rather worn and rumpled, not to mention dirty, a hand. Lestrade hesitated a split second before accepting it. "Long night?" He added as Lestrade distractedly brushed himself off, his eyes still far wider than Jones had ever seen them.

"You spend a night locked in a grave with nothing but that ridiculous cat-" here Lestrade gestured behind him, "for company, and see how you like it."

Jones frowned. "What cat, Lestrade?" He asked. The other Inspector shot him an irritated glance.

"That one right-right there." Perplexed, Lestrade stared at the empty air behind him. "It's gone." He said hesitantly. "It was right there a minute ago."

"And you just spent the night locked in a crypt." Jones pointed out. "That's enough to affect anybody."

Still a bit befuddled, Lestrade nodded, though he knew there had been a cat in there with him. He didn't know where it had gone, but he knew he had not imagined pair of glowing yellow eyes, the feeling of a small, warm body against his legs or the purring of a small feline in the darkness.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	43. Chapter 43

"Holmes! Holmes! Get out of the way, woman! Holmes!" Holmes and Watson were both on their feet as the sound of Lestrade shouting reached their ears. Their eyes met, Watson hoping for some explanation, but Holmes was just as puzzled as his companion by such extraordinary behavior.

That was when the doctor realized there were two sets of feet on the stairs, and that neither of them were Mrs. Hudson's. She was probably still at the bottom of the stairs where Lestrade had so rudely ordered her clear.

Holmes' client was also on his feet, looking greatly alarmed. "I'm sure it's nothing." Watson assured the man, though there was certainly _something_ amiss. Lestrade did not come racing up the stairs, bellowing frantically, and he would never dream of insulting Mrs. Hudson as he had just done.

The door burst open revealing the Inspector himself, Gregson in hot pursuit, both breathing heavily. The Inspectors stopped short; both sets of eyes landed on Watson, then darted to Holmes, and Lestrade breathed a sigh of relief.

"What the devil is going on?" Holmes demanded, looking from one Inspector to the other. Their behavior certainly was peculiar.

Lestrade was trying to apologize for alarming the two between gasping breaths when his eyes narrowed. Watson followed his gaze, and realized he was staring at their client, who was trying unobtrusively to put some distance between himself and the two apparently mad Inspectors.

To the surprise of both of the men residing at 221B Baker Street, Lestrade went for his revolver. "Who is this?" He demanded harshly.

Holmes regarded Lestrade critically. "A client." He replied. "His business here is rather confidential, I'm afraid."

"Of course it is." Gregson sneered at the man in question.

"Did he give you anything?" Lestrade snapped out the question. "Confidential or not, Mr. Holmes, you can either answer that or I'll drag you down to the Yard here and now for interfering with police business."

Watson stared at Lestrade in shock. "Lestrade-?"

"You can join him, Doctor." Lestrade cut him off.

Their client was shaking ever so slightly now, and Watson feared for him. He had admitted, after all, to suffering from a severe nervous condition. Watson said nothing, however.

There were times when you didn't argue with Lestrade, or even utter as much as a word to him unless in answer to a query. Watson had seen it before with criminals, Constables, and, albeit rarely, even with his fellow Inspectors. He had never been on the receiving end of it himself.

"Did he give you anything, Mr. Holmes?" Lestrade repeated his question, ice fairly dripping from the words.

Holmes also recognized the mood Lestrade was in. To his credit, he indicated the small box resting on the arm of his chair.

Lestrade picked it up, looked it over with considerable disinterest, and tossed it into the fire.

"Lestrade!" Holmes stepped forward as he accused the man. The Inspector paid him no heed, his eyes once more on the detective's trembling client.

"We have your accomplice." He informed the man coolly. "You can come quietly, or you can resist, but if you do anything other than exactly what I say I will shoot you on the spot."

Watson looked to Gregson for help, even if it were only an explanation for Lestrade's mad actions, but Gregson was kneeling by the fire as if fascinated by the burning box and consequently of no assistance whatsoever.

"I d-don't know w-what you're t-talking about-t, In-inspector." Holmes' client stammered out, his eyes wide with fear.

Lestrade didn't acknowledge the denial. "You're under arrest. You can set your personal belongings on the table there. I want even the lint out of your pockets, and I don't want to have to search you myself." He ordered.

Holmes exchanged another confused glance with the Doctor. "Lestrade-"

"Be quiet, Mr. Holmes." Lestrade cut him off. "I'm warning you."

Their client, meanwhile, was mournfully emptying his pockets. Distress lined the poor man's features, and his hands were shaking fiercely. Watson felt sorry for the man, and indignant over the treatment he was receiving at Lestrade's hand.

"Hands together in front of you." Lestrade said finally, satisfied. The frightened man obliged, and Lestrade approached him.

A second later the Inspector grunted and backhanded the man he was arresting. Holmes' client staggered back, then broke and bolted for the door.

"Gregson!" Lestrade snapped as he started forward but suddenly stopped and swore. Gregson stuck out a foot and the fellow stumbled, but kept going. Gregson promptly seized the nearest object, which happened to be one of Watson's heavier medical texts, and darted after him.

A second later Watson heard a thump, and then came a series of thuds that he recognized as the sound of someone falling down the stairs.

"My apologies, Mrs. Hudson!" He heard Gregson shout as he took the steps two at a time. A second later he was thundering back up them, and then he was once again in the room. "It was self defense." Gregson declared. "You saw that, didn't you?"

"Him lunge for you instead of going for the door like any sane man would've?" Lestrade retorted, still in the same spot he had been in.

Gregson nodded. "I was using a medical text, sorry Watson. How believable is that?"

"He had a knife; you used it to block his blow." Lestrade said quickly. "You were hoping to disable him, so you hit him in the back of the head."

"And the stairs?" Gregson persisted. Watson watched the scene unfolding before him, silently aghast.

He had no doubt their client was now dead, at the hands of these two Inspectors no less, and now they were lying, trying to cover up the details.

"You didn't hit him hard enough to knock him out." Lestrade offered. "But he hit the stairs, stumbled, and fell to his death. Terrible thing, but it happens."

Gregson nodded again, and made his way over to the other Inspector. Lestrade jerked as he spoke. "You should have searched him anyway." He said accusingly to the smaller man.

"I was going to." Lestrade snapped, staring past Gregson. "Now do me a favor and pull the bloody needle out."

"It's not really a needle." Gregson pointed out reasonably as he turned his attention to the smaller man's side.

"It's long, thin, hollow inside, and sharp at one end." Lestrade countered. "Would you prefer dart? Or splinter, perhaps?" He grimaced, and Gregson straightened.

"Here's an interesting murder weapon for you, Holmes." He said as he set the small object on the table. "You should probably sit down." He commented. Lestrade growled in response.

"I would if I knew where the chair was." He retorted. "I can't see."

"That was fast." Gregson took Lestrade by the arm and maneuvered him towards the couch. "I'm going to go for your wife."

"And Scotland Yard, I hope?" Lestrade grumbled. "Mrs. Hudson won't appreciate you leaving a dead body on the stairs."

"And Scotland Yard." Gregson agreed. "Anything else?"

"No. Now go clean up this mess." Lestrade replied immediately. As an afterthought, he added, "Actually, would you mind?" He held up his hands, and Gregson sighed.

"Sure." He agreed, going for his cuffs.

A second later he left the three of them there, Holmes and the Doctor without a clue as to what had just happened, and Lestrade with not only his wrists cuffed, but the cuffs wrapped around one leg of the couch so he couldn't go anywhere.

It was silent for a moment. Then Holmes shifted, and went for his pipe. "Now, would you care to explain yourself, _Inspector_?" He demanded, irritation and even some resentment seeping into his words.

Lestrade heard it and sighed. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes." He offered wearily. "It's been-it's rather complicated, you see."

"Perhaps you should try starting at the beginning." Holmes suggested dryly.

Lestrade considered that. "If you wish, though it probably won't help."

"Would it help to start at the end?" Holmes demanded impatiently, moving to stand in front of the Inspector. Watson was not the only person rattled by the events that had just taken place.

Lestrade flinched at the outburst. "I'll try to explain." He said quietly. "Yesterday morning found an unmarked envelope on my desk. Inside was an anonymous letter stating the sender's intent to murder two people.

"Holmes was one of them?" Watson guessed. Lestrade nodded.

"The letter stated the time, the place, even the method by which each murder would take place." Lestrade hesitated. "I was afraid I wouldn't make it here in time." He admitted. "Two men were involved; we found this out after we caught the other where the first murder was supposed to take place. He laughed and said it changed nothing. The younger-would still die." He had left something out, there. Why, Watson didn't know. Lestrade did not usually keep information from them.

"Why didn't you simply warn us?" Holmes demanded. "Why the theatrics?"

"Because it took forever to convince Gregson I wasn't insane, and then we still had to get rid of the bloody physician from Bedlam _and_ sneak out of Scotland Yard!" Lestrade snapped.

"Bedlam?" Watson repeated. "But why on earth-?"

Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to show Inspector Bradstreet into the room. If she noticed that Lestrade was now handcuffed, she knew better than to comment on it. She had seen far too many things since the coming of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson into her life to be all that surprised by anything that happened anymore.

Bradstreet, however, waited until she was gone to speak. "Gregson said you'd be raving like a lunatic by now." He told Lestrade. "Good to hear you aren't actually insane." He added cheerfully.

Lestrade muttered something under his breath before actually replying. "Not a word." He warned.

"Don't worry." Bradstreet assured him as he took a seat on the couch as well. "A word is enough to cost a person their job by now." He winced, but didn't explain why he suddenly looked so uneasy. "I'm supposed to be taking statements." He said after a minute. "Do you want to give one, or should I talk to the other two first?"

Lestrade was silent for a moment. Then he sighed. "Is that Bradstreet?" He asked grudgingly.

Bradstreet blanched. "Yes, sir." He replied nervously.

Lestrade growled. "Your corpse downstairs nicked me with some of his accomplice's hallucinatory drugs, Bradstreet. I can't see straight, and my hearing's starting to go funny."

"I wondered why you were handcuffed to the couch." Bradstreet ventured. "But shouldn't you be starting to, I don't know, react or something by now?"

Lestrade considered this. "Probably. It helps that while I _know_ you find strange things in the sitting room here, there can't possibly be sea serpents swimming in the rug." He finally said. Then he twitched. "All the same…" He said, swallowing nervously.

"What drug?" Watson finally asked, wondering if there were something he could do for the Inspector. He had little more idea what was going on now than he had earlier, but he _was_ a doctor. Drugs he could probably help with somehow.

Lestrade shrugged the offer off. "We haven't figured that out yet." He was eyeing a corner of the room nervously. "But what we _do_ know is that it drove three men into drug induced panics last night, and that two of them killed themselves under its influence. How's Jones?"

"He was grumbling that he wished we had just let him kill himself along with the other two." Bradstreet reported. "He said the after effects were just as bad as the hallucinations themselves. It took two Constables to stop him from hanging himself." He added, for the benefit of the those not with the Yard. "He also about had a heart attack when a horse trotted by on the street this morning."

"Lovely." Lestrade muttered. He was looking a bit green now, and his eyes fluttered shut. "Shouldn't you be taking their statements?" He demanded irritably of Bradstreet.

Bradstreet's eyebrows raised in amusement. Business-like, he turned to Holmes. "Would you mind telling me what happened?" He asked.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	44. Chapter 44

"You've got no proof, you know." The cornered man informed his pursuers, infuriatingly calm as he glared defiantly at Inspector Jones and Doctor Watson.

Inspector Jones frowned. "That's because you killed the witness." He growled.

The murderer smirked. "There's no proof of that accusation either." He said. "You can arrest me if you want, but you don't have anything against me and you know it. I'll go free."

Jones nodded. "You're right." He said. "You will go free. _If _I arrest you." He stepped forward and grabbed the contemptible fellow by his collar.

"What-?" The murderer gasped. It was all he had time to get out before Jones shoved him backwards through the glass window behind him.

"Inspector!" Watson was across the room and peering frantically out the window into the darkness. On the street below he could just make out the form of the man Inspector Jones had just shoved through a second story window.

There was no movement below.

"Come on." Jones said. "We don't want to still be here when the police show up." He left the room without a backward glance.

For a second Watson wondered if he had just seen what he thought he had seen. But the broken window remained, and the form on the street was still motionless. He darted after Jones.

"You killed that man!" He called after the Inspector, his mind still reeling after what had just happened.

"I did." Jones agreed.

Watson stared at the back of the man he was following through the dark, empty house. "Why?" He demanded after a moment.

Jones turned to look at him. "I don't owe you an explanation, Dr. Watson." He said bluntly. "You can tell Holmes or Lestrade or whoever you like what happened or not. I don't care."

He turned back, and Watson was sure that was the end of it. Once out in the street, however, Jones stopped again.

"He was right. We had no proof." He said. He scowled and spat angrily towards the house they had just vacated. "He would have gone free. The man killed _four pregnant women_ and tried to justify it with the fact that they weren't married. He also killed the only witness, the eight year old son of one of the women. He _also_ nearly killed Holmes and Gregson because they were getting too close. He would have succeeded had you not shown up when you did. He had no qualms about killing anyone who crossed him. He had to be stopped before he killed again."

"So you killed him." Watson said, a trifle accusingly. "What's the difference, then between you and him?"

Jones shrugged. "Perhaps none." He admitted. "Maybe I'm just as much in the wrong, maybe more." He spat again. "I do know there's one less murderer on the streets now."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	45. Chapter 45

Holmes looked back over his shoulder at the two Inspectors. Lestrade frowned; Gregson sighed and turned to his companion.

He swung, hard. Lestrade was not quick enough to block the other Inspector's blow. Gregson's fist connected and Lestrade staggered back. He straightened up almost immediately, however, and countered with a quick punch directed toward Gregson's stomach. Within a few seconds the two were going at it and attracting quite a bit of attention.

A crowd was gathering. Taunts, jeers, and cheers were thrown out; the Inspectors' audience was enjoying the spectacle. The fight, however, was quickly turning nasty. Both men were going to be feeling this in the morning.

The two large men guarding one of the back rooms decided it was time to break up the fight. They stalked purposefully toward the Inspectors, and Holmes went in action.

It was only a moment's work to pick the lock on the door. Holmes opened it and slipped inside, noting out of the corner of his eye that Lestrade had been knocked down after hitting one of the guards. He calculated that the Inspectors could last for perhaps two and half minutes longer.

He hoped it would be enough time.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	46. Chapter 46

Watson was not sure if it would be wise to ask why Gregson and Lestrade seemed to be trying to decide whether to glare at Holmes or at each other.

They had played a part in his rescue, as a distraction, Holmes had said dismissively, but Watson was now wondering about the nature of this distraction.

"Good heavens!" He exclaimed as a thought occurred to him. He turned to face the two bruised and battered Inspectors. "You didn't pick a fight with the guard?"

Watson knew from experience that the burly, unpleasant guard was not someone to cross.

"No." Gregson grunted, but it was the sort of 'no' that was more of a 'not exactly' than an actual denial. Watson eyed him and Lestrade suspiciously.

"Who hit you, Lestrade?" The doctor asked, concerned. The Inspector would have a magnificent black eye in the morning. He would be lucky to be able to see out of that eye at all tomorrow.

Lestrade was in no mood for the discussion he sensed was coming. "Gregson." He told Watson flatly, his tone indicating that that was the end of the matter.

Watson looked from Lestrade to Gregson and let the matter go. If the two did not want to admit that they had staged a fight to distract Watson's guard while Holmes slipped in and rescued the doctor, Watson was not going to press the issue.

He was glad, however, that they had.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me, but wouldn't it be cool if they did?


	47. Chapter 47

Bradstreet straightened up. "There he is, Holmes-oh." The Inspector caught Holmes by the sleeve as he would have stepped forward.

Watson stared at the sight before them. Lestrade, covered in mud and what might possibly have been blood, had entered the Yard with a small bundle in his arms and his eyes flashing. Concerned, the doctor looked Bradstreet. "Is he-"

Bradstreet cut him off with a sharp motion of his hand, but said nothing. He recognized the look in the older Inspector's eyes. Very rarely was Lestrade seen in such a fury, and Bradstreet knew the man well enough to guess what had put him in such a rage and what was in the bundle in his arms.

With a gesture to Holmes and Watson to stay put, and a prayer that they would listen, Bradstreet gingerly approached the livid Inspector. "Anything I can do?" He asked softly. He watched, ready to back away immediately if it became necessary, as Lestrade barely managed to bite back a harsh retort.

Lestrade closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and forced himself to relax minutely. "Holmes and Watson are here." Bradstreet told him. "I can take care of the child, Lestrade." He offered, nodding toward the bundle in the other Inspector's arms.

Lestrade hesitated, then nodded and held the small bundle out for Bradstreet to take. Bradstreet accepted the bundle carefully, and Lestrade looked over to where Holmes and Lestrade looked over to where Holmes and Watson were standing." He said before heading for his office.

Bradstreet looked down at the baby now cradled in his arms and sighed softly. Lestrade always had had a soft spot where children were concerned. Nothing made him angrier than someone who would harm a child, and so it was no surprise to anyone when the Inspector occasionally came in looking a mess and in a foul mood and carrying baggage in the form of some abused or neglected young thing.

He rejoined Holmes and Watson. "Don't ask." He warned them. It was better to leave whatever had happened alone. "I mean it."

"Is that a child?" Watson asked, surprised. Bradstreet sighed again.

"This is a child that Lestrade has apparently rescued from someone or something." Bradstreet explained heavily. "What that entailed I don't know, nor would it be a good idea under any circumstances to ask, so please-just-don't."

Bradstreet excused himself before the two could finish properly digesting that bit of information. The rest of his day was more than likely going to be spent finding a home for the small bundle in his arms.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	48. Chapter 48

Author's note: To all who celebrate it, Happy Thanksgiving! To all who do not, enjoy the extra updates anyway!

* * *

I don't understand this game." Archie complained, running a hand through bright red hair. His partner, a somber looking dark haired fellow with a nose crooked from where it had been broken in his youth and piercing blue eyes, groaned.

"How many times have we explained this to you?" Bartholomew asked his partner.

"Every time we get together." The other two seated at the table chorused. The two blondes chuckled.

"So are we done pretending to play cards, then?" Tobias asked. "Or do we want to pretend we actually like the game for a bit longer?"

"I'm done." The other blonde, Tommy replied. He was the same age as his companions, though he still looked substantially younger. "I'm not sure why we still do this, though."

"I thought it was to give the wives something to complain about." Archie offered. "Want to see a magic trick?"

"Again?" Bartholomew complained. Tommy snorted.

"No, it's a new one." Archie assured him. Bartholomew grunted his permission and Archie gathered the cards. "Pick a card, any card." He told Tobias, who grinned and obligingly leaned forward to select a card.

He froze as he heard the knock at the door.

Archie's eyebrows went up as Tobias Gregson stifled a curse. He knew that knock.

"Excuse me for just a minute." He said to his friends as he rose from the table. Archie shrugged and turned his attention to Tommy instead.

Tobias left Tommy to select a card and made his way to the front door.

"Sorry t' bother you on your night off." Lestrade slurred ever so slightly, and Gregson went through the checklist.

Drunk-defintely not. The last time he had seen Lestrade drunk enough to actually lean on a wall for support was-never.

Ill-probably not. Lestrade had been in good health the last time Gregson had seen him, which was yesterday. He would have taken ill so quickly.

Injured-he was holding some sort of rag like apparation to the back of his head. Someone had hit him, then, and it was likely bleeding.

"You sure you wouldn't rather just act as if nothing had hapened instead of actually admitting you were hurt?" Gregson asked as he moved back to let Lestrade inside.

"I can't tell how bad I'm bleeding ," the other grumbled, "but I know it's not good if I'm already dizzy."

"Don't collapse." Gregson warned Lestrade as he swayed on his feet. "I don't want blood on the carpet. Come on."  
The second time Lestrade staggered Gregson took him by the arm to lead him through the sitting room. He received a dirty look for his trouble, but he also caught the injured Inspector before he fell when he stumbled.

"Sit." Gregson settled Lestrade in what had been his seat and went for a clean cloth and some water. "Head forward, Lestrade. You know the drill."

Lestrade was apparently not too disoriented to notice the three suddenly silent men at the table. "Am I interrupting something?" He asked.

"Yes." Gregson told him as he returned with a bowl of water and a clean cloth. "You did save me from one of Archie's card tricks, however, so I suppose I should be grateful. Take that-whatever that is off your head. It's filthy."

"It was there." Lestrade mumbled as Gregson bent forward to examine the rather nasty gash in the back of the man's head.

"What happened?" Gregson asked, scowling at the wound as he dipped his clean cloth in the bowl and wrung the excess water out. He pressed it against the back of Lestrade's head without warning him first.

"Ow." Lestrade muttered without much energy. "I think it was a candlestick." He offered uncertainly.

"Hard to tell when they hit you from behind." Gregson commented. "The bleeding seems to be slowing down." He added, ignoring the three men who were watching the scene before them in apparent fascination. He was not entirely certain why his friends still seemed to think his job was so interesting.

"You could probably stand to see a doctor." Gregson suggested without much hope. Watson was off somewhere with Holmes on a case, and he was about the only doctor Lestrade would consider seeing anymore as long as he was even remotely concious.

"I'll be fine." Lestrade said predictably, trying to sit up. Gregson let him, and allowed himself a smirk as Lestrade subsequently paled and let out a low moan.

"I'll believe that if you can make it to the door without falling over or tripping over anything." Gregson informed the other man tolerantly, though by now he had realized that it was very likely Lestrade was going to end up spending the night on his couch, albeit grudgingly.

Lestrade scowled at him in response. Gregson merely smiled back and offered him a cup of tea.

He reflected, as he set water to boil, on the fact that he probably would not have given up a relaxing evening with his friends for anyone else at the Yard, at least not without serious complaint.

He reconciled this with the fact that he still did not like the man with the knowledge that Lestrade would have done the same for him and anyone else he worked with, Inspector and Constable alike.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	49. Chapter 49

The Inspectors at Scotland Yard had seen enough to be wary of outsiders, even if they were supposed to be fellow police officers and on the same side. They had worked with various other stations and other officials on enough occasions to be aware that most of the time cooperation between jurisdictions was something that the higher ups talked about but did not really believe in.

Bradstreet, Hopkins, and Jones stood quietly in a corner of the room, watching the man who had been allegedly brought in to 'assist' them with one of their cases. Hopkins kept his mouth tightly closed; he had still not completely recovered from the last outsider to come in and try to tell them how to do their jobs.

"This is Lestrade's fault again, I'll bet you anything." Jones grumbled under his breath. There was no denying that Lestrade had an alarming habit of already knowing most of the strangers that someone above sent their way, just as there was no ignoring the fact that such prior knowledge rarely made things easier on those involved.

Bradstreet shrugged. He usually tried to be cooperative and helpful during these trials, not that it often helped, but one look at this man suggested that any offered friendliness would be wasted.

The man who stood leaning against one of the farther walls from the Inspectors' corner looked as if he had been carved out of a block of wood and left to weather and turn grey. He was also tall and extremely thin.

He was old, and worn, but hard. In his youth, at least, the man had not been one to cross. Now-

He still carried himself as if he were not someone to cross.

The door opened, and Gregson entered the room. He raised an eyebrow as he caught sight of the man they would be working with, but said nothing.

"What?" Jones hissed as Gregson joined their corner. "What is it?"

Gregson shook his head. He looked somewhat uneasy. "I know him." He murmured, but would say nothing more, not even when Jones swore at him under his breath.

There was still Lestrade to show up, and the dark atmosphere in the room grew steadily worse as time passed and he did not show up.

Then the door opened, and Lestrade strode into the room. He frowned at the sight of the Inspectors huddled in the corner, then stopped as he caught sight of the man leaning against the wall.

Lestrade's jaw dropped. "What the devil are you doing here?" He demanded sharply.

The other man looked back at him, unfazed. "Still running yourself ragged, Lestrade?" He asked, straightening up. "I'm surprised you haven't burnt yourself out by now."

Lestrade scoffed. "I could say the same thing about you." He replied. The two men shook hands, and Lestrade turned to Gregson. "What are you lot doing?" He demanded.

"I think your boy is still afraid of me." The other suggested drily.

"You did threaten to send slice him to pieces and send him back to me in a box once." Lestrade reminded him almost cheerfully. "Did you actually introduce yourself to the others, or did you just stand there looking menacing?"

"He stood there looking menacing." Gregson offered. "I'm not his boy." He added, and the stranger turned his gaze on the blonde. For a minute Bradstreet fancied the other Inspector was considering ducking behind Lestrade for cover, but shoved away that idea as ridiculous.

Lestrade ignored Gregson's discomfort. "Jones, Hopkins, and Bradstreet." He named the three remaining Inspectors in turn.

"Inspector West." The stranger offered before Lestrade could, and Jones did not miss the surprised glance Gregson shot at this West fellow.

"We've worked together before." Lestrade offered the obligatory basis of his relationship with this man. There was more to it, there always was, but at least this time Lestrade did not seem to dislike the man they would be working with.

He did, however, turn to raise an eyebrow at West, who retaliated with a frightening grin and tossed Lestrade the file he had kept tucked under his arm. Lestrade caught it and opened it carefully, as if it might bite him.

West laughed, a short exhalation of air that made no actual sound. "Yes, this is big." He said. "Big enough that that file won't actually tell you much, Lestrade. I need someone I can trust." His eyes sought Lestrade's, his serious expression suddenly even more so. "I know Gregson, but what about the rest of these men?"

"I will vouch for them." Lestrade said quietly. West waited, and so Lestrade added, "I would trust them with my life, West."

West did not smile. "You may be about to." He said.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	50. Chapter 50

The entire incident lasted perhaps seven seconds. It left Hopkins' head spinning.

Hopkins had apparently said the wrong thing, which was easy enough for him, but West suddenly wheeled around and had him pinned against the wall with a knife to his throat. In the background Hopkins thought he had heard Gregson call for Lestrade, but he was too concerned with the knives-one at his throat and one at his stomach-to pay much attention to what was going on beyond him and West.

He did hear Lestrade call the older Inspector's name. "West." This was accompanied by a click that sounded like Lestrade's revolver, but Hopkins didn't dare look to be sure.

West did not release Hopkins, but he waited.

"I know what you're thinking," Lestrade said calmly, "and you're wrong. Hopkins says the wrong thing sometimes. He did not mean what you think he meant."

West frowned. "You sure about that?" He asked, his voice hard. Hopkins was sure he was dead.

"Would I say it if I were not?" Lestrade asked a question of his own. The two men studied each other intently for what seemed an eternity.

West let Hopkins go. The lad drew in a grateful breath and could not stop his hand from going to his throat as if to reassure himself that it was still whole and unmarked. Then he actually noticed the scene before him.

Jones and Bradstreet had both gone completly white and frozen in their tracks. Gregson too had paled, but had moved to stand beside Lestrade as if steeling himself to do something vastly unpleasant.

Lestrade had still had his revolver leveled at West. The two men were still watching each other, waiting.

Lestrade finally approached the older man. "Let me make myself clear, West." He said quietly. "If you so much as touch one of my people again, I will shoot you without a second's hesitation." He was silent for perhaps a second before adding, "If that's going to be a problem, I'll shoot you now."

"No problem." West did not seem particularly alarmed by the turn of events, nor did he seem remorseful of the fact that he had nearly just slit Hopkins' throat. "Your boys, your responsibility." He warned.

"Of course." Lestrade agreed, as if it were obvious. He pocketed his revolver, and West slid his knives back up his sleeves.

Hopkins wondered just what sort of person they had gotten themselves tangled up with. Lestrade brushed up against Hopkins as the group started moving again. "Keep your mouth shut, Hopkins." Lestrade murmured softly. Hopkins swallowed nervously and did not point out that the warning was by this time unnecessary.


	51. Chapter 51

When the hunt turned into a stakeout Hopkins did not know whether laugh or cry. Truthfully, all he wanted right now was for this miserable assignment to be over. Of course, the return of the Inspector Lestrade he had thought he had known would be nice too.

Lestrade had been acting more and more like this Inspector West as every minute went by. It was frightening to see Lestrade slowly transform from his usual, dangerous enough self to what Hopkins personally thought of as a walking, breathing killing machine.

West was certainly one of these. There was no doubt about it. West was deadly, and would kill without hesitation and with remorse.

Hopkins did not like the man, but he disliked the fact that Lestrade seemed to be modeling his behavior even more.

He was content to huddle in the corner with Jones and Bradstreet, both of whom were equally alarmed by the day's progression of events, while Lestrade and West settled down by the only window in the room.

He was slightly surprised, given the close proximity Gregson had kept to Lestrade since this whole wretched affair had begun, when the other Inspector chose to join their trio rather than take a spot beside the man he had stuck to all day. It was odd to see the usually confident Inspector tailing Lestrade as if afraid to let him out of his sight-whether for Lestrade's protection or Gregson's it was difficult to tell. It only added to the unpleasantness and worries of the day.

Hopkins quickly realized, however, as Gregson sat down with a soft sigh, that he did not care for Inspector West any more than Hopkins did.

"What is it with those two?" Jones asked Gregson, his voice so low it was barely audible to the three men sitting with him. He would not be overheard by the two at the window.

Gregson hesitated, and Hopkins realized something. Gregson was afraid of West, enough so that it actually showed. Gregson was not someone who often let people see how he really felt about much of anything.

"He's not an Inspector." Gregson finally said. "Never was, though he's been introduced as one on more than one occasion. He was at the Yard when I started, when they were trying to clean it up, and after the bulk of it was taken care of he just disappeared. He always acted as if he weren't simply upholding the law. He acted as if he were the law. Beyond that-" here Gregson shrugged, "I know nothing of the man."

"And Lestrade?" Jones was not worried about saying Lestrade's name. The man knew them; he knew what they were discussing. If he heard his name, he would ignore it.

"They worked together a lot." Gregson offered. "Lestrade worked better with him than anyone else. They are, after all, very much alike. Lestrade seemed to idolize the man for a while." He frowned and shook his head. "They still worked together a lot after that, but Lestrade was a little more careful of what he learned from him."

Jones did not ask what had happened. Gregson clearly did not want to talk about it. Instead he opted for a question that turned out to be only slightly less upsetting.

"Why are you following Lestrade around like a little lap dog?"

Gregson ran a hand through his hair. "Old habits die hard." He murmured, his gaze drifting to settle on Lestrade, who seemed to be deep in conversation with West. Gregson's expression was troubled as he tried to decide whether to answer or not. "He stabbed Lestrade." He finally said. "Ran the blade right through his shoulder and left him pinned against the wall and didn't think a thing about it." He turned back to look at Jones. "Said it was necessary. We wouldn't have caught the man we were after otherwise. Pointed out that he hadn't caused any lasting damage as if that actually made some sort of difference."

Jones was only partly convinced. He leaned closer to Gregson. "Are you protecting Lestrade, or is he protecting you?" He wanted to know.

"Both." Gregson's eyes flashed; he was mentally cursing Jones. "He doesn't like me, and doesn't trust me, and no, I don't care to go into why." He added, daring Jones to ask.

Jones did not ask. "Would Lestrade really shoot him for touching one of us?" He asked instead. Lestrade was not one to make idle threats, but then again, he also tended to let his fellow Inspectors deal with their own problems themselves.

Gregson scoffed. "If he said it, he meant it." He said grimly. "And West knows it, too."

"So you three are old friends, then." Jones muttered, liking the situation even less than he had previously.

Gregson did not reply. He was watching Lestrade again.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	52. Chapter 52

"Who are we hunting, West?" Lestrade's voice had risen, and was agitated enough to attract the attention of his fellow Inspectors across the room. Lestrade was standing now, hands on his vacated chair, eying the other 'Inspector' intently. "Who?"

West also stood. "You don't need to know." He said flatly. He did not seem bothered by Lestrade's sudden change in demeanor.

"If you want our cooperation on this, then I do." Lestrade replied. His voice had lowered again, to a deadly pitch that Gregson had hoped never to hear again.

West matched Lestrade glare for glare. "You know who we're after." He finally said, and Lestrade swore and stalked away from the table. West waited.

Lestrade turned his attention to the group in the corner. "Hopkins, Bradstreet, go home." He snapped. "You too, Jones."

Hopkins thought about opening his mout. Bradstreet actually did. "Lestrade, what-?"

"Now!" Lestrade barked.

West moved then. "I need them, Lestrade." He told the Inspector. Lestrade wheeled about to glare at him.  
"I'm not dragging them along for _Le Boucher du Diable_ to cut open." Lestrade snarled. He turned to glare at Jones. "Why are you still here?" He demanded.

Gregson grabbed Hopkins by his jacket and shoved him toward the door. Bradstreet took the hint and followed along before Gregson could grab him as well. Jones followed, though for a completely different reason.

Gregson looked like a dead man as he ushered the three out.

"Well?" Jones demanded as they paused in the downstairs room of the empty building. Gregson did not answer right away.

"_Le Boucher du Diable_ is French for The Devil's Butcher." Gregson finally answered. "The last time anyone went after him he sliced open five men, stomach to throat, and left them for dead. He nearly gutted a sixth, and would have if the sixth hadn't been wearing protective armor of sorts. He still ended up a mess. Out of the eight men that went after him, only three actually made it back out alive."

Jones offered Gregson a look that said he was an idiot. "And you think we're going to leave you three to take this creature down by yourselves?" He asked.

"Lestrade doesn't want to have to bury any more Yarders this time around." Gregson snapped. "And you have no idea what you'd be getting yourselves into."

"And you do?" Jones asked. "Do you really think we'd just walk away and leave you three to what you think is certain death?"

"Do I have to show you the bloody scars?" Gregson all but roared, and Jones shut up. It was one of the few times he'd seen Gregson actually lose his temper. It was the only time he'd ever seen the man so openly frightened for both himself and the people he worked with. He was not confident in his and Lestrade's chances of survival. He was confident that the other three Inspector's chances were none.

That rare moment of unspoken honesty did more to convince them than any words could have, and they exchanged a glance as Gregson took a deep breath and tried to collect himself.

"Go," He murmered softly, "Don't argue, just go."

Jones finally nodded. "We'll see you in the morning." He said firmly, and Gregson nearly laughed.

"Sure," he said, "in the morning."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	53. Chapter 53

Jones, Hopkins, and Bradstreet were all at the Yard bright and early the next morning, though none of them quite knew what to expect after the events of last night and Hopkins was not the only one to feel somewhat guilty about having left.

But Gregson had been deadly serious. He and Lestrade had both wanted them out of there, and Lestrade and Gregson rarely had any qualms about dragging members into Scotland Yard along into dangerous situations.

He had been afraid as well, which left Hopkins to wonder if the two men were even still alive this morning.

"What are you going to do with a bloody cleaver?" The jumped as they heard the demand echo through the hall. Hopkins' eyes widened as he recognized Lestrade's voice; he sounded tired, and irritated, but also somewhat relieved.

"Take it to your good friend West." Came the equally irate reply from Gregson. "I hate him. And I am not your boy." Now that they knew that both men were definitely alive, the thought of Gregson being Lestrade's _boy_ struck Bradstreet as more than a little humorous. Not that he would ever let Gregson know he thought so.

"You never complained when Adams called you that." They heard Lestrade point out, a bit amused himself.

The three Inspectors exchanged a glance and darted in the direction of the voices.

"Adams wasn't a bloody mental case! What are you laughing about?"

"Nothing. I wasn't laughing. I'm still coughing up blood, in case you hadn't noticed."

"I'm sending for the doctor." Gregson's tone was sharp.

"I don't-"

"Or your wife."

They heard the submissive growl and turned the corner to find Gregson's office door open, and he and Lestrade seated on either side of his desk arguing over top of a rather large, stained cleaver that was resting on top of said desk. Both of the Inspectors were a mess, and the sight of the cleaver was enough to send shivers down the spines of all three men.

"I can't believe you shoved West down the stairs." Lestrade grumbled halfheartedly. He was holding his side with his left arm and looked rather uncomfortable where he sat.

"I told him not to use you as bait anymore." Gregson retorted. "He's lucky I'm so easygoing."

"Easygoing?" Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

"I put up with you." Gregson pointed out. "Hopkins, send for Dr. Watson, would you?" I think Lestrade's broken a couple of ribs."

Hopkins jumped as if he had been shot. Neither Gregson nor Lestrade had seemed aware of the men gathered in the doorway.

Hopkins nodded, grinned at the two Inspectors who were both still alive, tried to pretend he hadn't, and took off. Jones shook his head at the lad.

"I see you two managed not to get yourselves killed." Was all he said before he left. Whatever the two had been through the night before,they were dealing with it in their own peculiar way. Lestrade had also donned the familiar expression that suggested that a person would mind his own business if he knew what was good for him, and Jones knew quite well what was good for him.

The two seated Inspectors turned their attention to Bradstreet, who smiled and shrugged. "Glad to see you both alive." He offered before he too left the two to themselves. As he left, he heard Gregson turn back to Lestrade.

"Easygoing or not, if I ever see him again, I will kill him."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	54. Chapter 54

Author's note: I'm back! Finals are over for the semester! And yes, I missed you guys.

* * *

Lestrade stepped out of his office and let out a muffled yelp as something cold and hard hit him square in the face as he left his office. Caught off guard and temporarily blinded, he stumbled back. In the next second he shook off what he now recognized as melting snow and began searching for his assailant.

It was Hopkins who had thrown the snowball. The younger Inspector did not try to run as Lestrade identified him as the source of the snowball. It would only have made things worse in the long run. He did not try to explain. The fact that he had been aiming for Bradstreet was irrelevant.

Hopkins swallowed nervously, guessed that his color was likely a shade or two paler than its normal color, and began casting about in his mind for an appropriate prayer, but also stood his ground as Lestrade advanced upon him.

Behind Lestrade Bradstreet too had gone rather pale, and was seriously entertaining the idea of making a break for it and leaving Hopkins to face the older Inspector alone. He could not, however, in good conscience abandon the lad, so he stayed where he was.

Anyone who had spent very much time at Scotland Yard quickly learned, either through direct personal experience or observation, that it was not wise to struggle if Lestrade collared you. As an Inspector, Hopkins had seen enough to be acutely aware of this fact, and consequently did nothing more than shoot a silent plea for help in Bradstreet's direction wide and terrified eyes as the older Inspector dragged the younger down the hall.

Bradstreet neither felt guilty enough nor was foolish enough to attempt to intervene on Hopkins' behalf, though he was still reluctant enough to leave Hopkins to Lestrade that he followed the two down the hall and outside, where he watched in horrified fascination as Lestrade threw Hopkins headfirst into a snowdrift.

Hopkins remained where he was, reluctant to risk further aggravating Lestrade when he was apparently in enough of a mood to react so physically and absurdly to what was essentially and accident. A muffled oath _did_ escape him, however. It was _cold_.

A window flew open, and Gregson leaned out the window. "Quit playing around!" He bellowed, and for some reason Bradstreet got the feeling he was shouting primarily at Lestrade. "I need _you_ in here _now_, and you could at least put your coats on if you're going to carry on like a bunch of school children; you're going to make yourselves sick!" He finished irritably before disappearing back inside and slamming the window closed.

Lestrade smirked at the now closed window before turning to help Hopkins out of the snowdrift. He offered the lad a wink and shot one last glance in the direction of Gregson's office window before almost chuckling and heading back inside.

He left behind two alarmed and confused Inspectors.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	55. Chapter 55

"Hullo?" Hopkins called cautiously. "Clover?"

The door opened and she stood in the doorway. "Heard ya got hitched." His old friend said as she pulled him into a hug. "I reckoned that was why I hadn't seen ya. Wish I'd said yes."

Hopkins laughed. "We were just kids, Clover."

"Stupid kids, too." She added as he followed her inside. "What's her name?"

"Lucy." Hopkins said, his mood dampening a bit. "I don't really want to talk about her, Clover." He said softly.

They gravitated to the bed in the corner as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He sat with his back against the wall, his arms wrapped around his knees as if he were little once again. Clover sat beside him, her legs sprawled most unladylike in front of her.

"Things not whatcha thought they'd be?" She asked gently. He shrugged in reply, and they let the silence have its way for several minutes.

"She married me 'cause her parents told her not to." He finally said. "She's never happy. We fight all the time, seems like." He sighed. "I just don't know what to do." He admitted. "I thought-" his shoulders slumped, "I don't know what I thought."

"Ya thought everything'd be perfect and ya'd both live happily ever after." Clover told him."Yer a dreamer, Stanley." She snaked an affectionate arm around his shoulders. "Even our upbringin' couldn't beat that outta ya." She kissed him on the cheek. "It'll be a'ight, Stanley. You'll find a way ta make it work. I'm sure of it."

They spent the rest of the night together in silence, each enjoying the company of an old friend.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	56. Chapter 56

Lestrade kept walking, but the Constable behind him stopped and stared. Lestrade turned. "Is there a problem?" He asked.

Evans shook his head and started moving again.

Gregson was helping his wife with the laundry. He looked up, caught sight of Lestrade and the Constable, and sighed.

"It's my day off." He pointed out as he hung a shirt on the line.

"I know," Lestrade agreed, "I need your help."

"I have to finish hanging out the laundry." Gregson said.

"I know." Lestrade said again as the poor Constable made the mistake of snickering. Both Inspectors looked at him, and he felt his face go red.

Gregson went back to hanging up the laundry. Lestrade simply waited.

"Do you find something funny about a man helping his wife with the laundry, Constable?" Lestrade asked quietly as Gregson finished up and took the empty basket back inside.

Evans said nothing, but cast about in his mind for an appropriate prayer.

"Are you married?" Lestrade continued, when he realized he was not going to get an answer. The Constable swallowed nervously and shook his head.

"It isn't easy to be married to someone in the force." Lestrade said flatly. "If you want to make it last, you have to work at it. Sometimes it's the little things that make all the difference."

Evans stared at Lestrade as Gregson reappeared and joined them. He was still staring as the two Inspectors headed back toward the street and Lestrade began explaining the situation.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	57. Chapter 57

Bradstreet's daughter shrieked and threw herself at his legs as he entered the sitting room. He scooped her up into his arms and kissed her on the forehead. She giggled and threw her arms around his neck.

"I'm home!" He called to his wife unnecessarily. She came from the kitchen to greet him, but he caught something in her expression and set his daughter down, who reacted by latching on to his leg.

"What's wrong, Melissa?" He asked as he pulled her into a hug.

"The doctor came to take the cast of Sophie's arm." His wife said softly. "He kept talking to her, and when I told him she hadn't started talking yet he started asking all these questions about her." She frowned as she recalled the visit. "He was here all afternoon asking questions and watching her and he says he thinks something's wrong with her."

"He said that?" Bradstreet asked carefully. Melissa nodded.

"He thinks something's not right in her head. He wanted us to take her to see another doctor."

Bradstreet sighed. "She doesn't talk, and she doesn't usually play like children her age are supposed to, but that doesn't mean something's wrong with her, Missy. She may just be a little different." His wife relaxed some. "You don't want to take her to see this doctor." He realized.

Melissa nodded, but could not help worry anyway. Nor was she alone. Her husband considered his little girl as he again bent down and scooped her up into his arms.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	58. Chapter 58

Lestrade came back late, and he came back alone.

He stalked past the other Inspectors, ignored Watson, and almost slammed his office door closed behind him. Gregson sighed, but did not look surprised. "Jones and Hopkins went after them when they realized something was wrong." He said to Watson quietly. "The Rookie was dead when they got there."

"He's taking it hard, then?" Watson guessed.

"He always does." Gregson replied heavily. "It happens. Our job is a dangerous one, and you can't keep your eyes on them all the time." Gregson looked from the closed door to Watson. "He'll be fine, eventually, but Jones said he was injured, and with the mood he's currently in he'll just ignore it."

Watson offered the Inspector a tight smile. "I'll see to it." He promised, and perhaps it was only his imagination, but he thought the other man looked relieved.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	59. Chapter 59

"Hello?" Jones called as he opened the door and stepped inside. He started as he turned to find a cane waving in his face, threatening to break his nose. "How are you, Mum?" He asked.

She lowered her cane. "I know I raised you better than to enter someone's house without knocking, Athelney."

"I did knock." He replied. "You just didn't hear me."

"Posh," she said dismissively, flapping her hand at her son, "I am not going deaf." She said, leading her son deeper into the house.

"No," Jones muttered under his breath, "you're already there."

"What was that?" His mother asked, looking back over her shoulder.

"Nothing. How have you been?" Jones asked.

"Old. Lonely. Tired." She replied. "You should visit more. How are my grandchildren coming along?"

Jones managed not to grimace. "Give it time, Mum." He suggested for what was not the first time and most certainly would not be the last.

"I'm old. Your father's gone. How much time do you think I have? Tea?"

"Yes, please." Jones replied. "No sugar. You look like you've got a few good winters left before we'll need to put you down." He said smartly, and was rewarded with a slap on the back of the head.

"You need to find some better friends, Athelney." She scolded. "You're too smart for your own good."

Jones managed, somehow, not to snort. "My wife is my closest friend, Mum." He told her. "The men I work with are hardly friends-"

"It's not good to be so alone." She could change her tune so quickly, Jones mused.

"I'm not." He assured her. "I like my life just the way it is."

"That's why I don't have any grandchildren yet." She grumbled, and Jones repressed a sigh.

"We're working on it." He retorted. Then he checked his watch. "I have to go." He told her.

Her face fell ever so slightly, and she sighed. "I'll come visit you again on Monday." He reminded her. "Can I bring you anything?"

She smiled and shook her head. "Your visiting is enough." She said as they both stood. She kissed him on the forehead and he told her he could see himself out.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	60. Chapter 60

"Lestrade's making hot chocolate." Hopkins burst into Gregson's office with a complete disregard for any and all forms of propriety or even common courtesy, his eyes gleaming.

Gregson looked up from his conversation with Holmes and Dr. Watson. Far from being irritated by the interruption, the Inspector actually looked interested. "Why?" He asked cautiously. If Lestrade were making hot chocolate, it was entirely possible someone was on the verge of death.

"Jones fell into the river." Hopkins replied with a shiver. "Bradstreet went after the man that shoved him and ended up going in after him."

Gregson considered the snow that was still being dumped on the city outside his window. "They get him?" He asked, considering the two other men in his office.

"Lestrade got him while he was dunking Bradstreet." Hopkins answered, and Gregson made up his mind as the lad decided he had wasted enough time and took off without bothering to excuse himself.

"Come on," Gregson said, raising out of his seat and heading for the door.

"Where are we going?" Holmes inquired as he and Watson were left with no choice but to follow the Inspector if they wished to continue their conversation.

"You heard Hopkins," Gregson said as briskly as if he were still discussing a case, "Lestrade's making hot chocolate."

"And?" Holmes pressed.

"And the only thing better than Lestrade's hot chocolate is when Jones makes eggnog, which has only happened twice that I recall." Gregson explained as if it were obvious. "And," he continued as they reached the small, makeshift kitchen that really was not good for much more than boiling water, "Lestrade knows better than to not make extra."

If there had been any doubt in Watson's mind about the existence of a hot drink that could draw even the Inspectors of Scotland Yard away from their duty, it vanished with that first sip. Even Holmes made no complaint over being distracted from the case.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	61. Chapter 61

"Still snowing out there?" Bradstreet greeted Holmes and Watson cheerfully enough as they entered Scotland Yard. "You might want to keep your coats on." He added quickly, as Watson began to unbutton his coat. "The furnace seems to have given out again. No surprise there, as cold as it's been this month."

Watson looked at the Inspector oddly as he refastened the top button on his coat. "Where's your coat, then, Bradstreet?" He asked.

Bradstreet shrugged easily in response. "Hopkins has it." He said with a half embarrassed chuckle. "Lad never can keep warm in this weather."

"Aren't you cold?" Watson wanted to know. Bradstreet shook his head.

"No." He replied. Catching the impatience written across the features of Watson's companion, and trying to recall just when Holmes had started quietly if not entirely patiently waiting for the the doctor to finish exchanging pleasantries with whomever he was talking before calling his attention back to the reason for their visit, Bradstreet asked, "Is there something I can do for you?"

"We're looking for Lestrade." Holmes offered.

"He's in Gregson's office." Bradstreet informed them. He went on to explain before Watson asked.

"Lestrade's office is drafty enough when the furnace is working. Jones office is just as bad, which is why he's in mine."

"Jones and Lestrade vacated their offices because it was cold?" Watson had a hard time imagining either Inspector retreating from his office simply because of the cold.

Then again, the weather outside had been frigid, to say the least, of late.

"Jones already has a cold; he was out in this mess all day." Bradstreet walked with the two men back toward Gregson's office. "Lestrade bullied him into agreeing to take my office while there's no heat, but it backfired on him when Gregson caught him in the act and maintained that if Jones' office was too cold for him them Lestrade's was too cold for him as well."

"And Gregson won?" Watson was impressed.

"Gregson always wins when Lestrade knows he right." Bradstreet chuckled. "Sometimes it takes a while, but eventually Lestrade'll give in."

"You gossip like an old woman." Hopkins said sourly as he stepped into the hall, closing his office door behind him. The lad scowled up at the other Inspector.

Bradstreet was unfazed by Hopkins' foul mood. "Going back out?" He inquired sympathetically.

"Lestrade wants me to round up the vagrants." Hopkins grumbled, shoving his hands into the pockets of a coat that hung from his wiry frame, causing him to look more than a bit like a scarecrow. "Not sure there's any point, with the furnace out." He added darkly.

"Out of the wind and the snow." Bradstreet suggested. "I'll have a kettle on when you get back." He offered, and received a half grateful nod from Hopkins before the lad took off down the hall.

Gregson appeared in his office doorway as the three reached it, sliding out of his coat. "Go help Hopkins." He ordered, throwing his own coat at Bradstreet. "Otherwise I have to send Jones out."

"Bradstreet groaned, but pulled Gregson's coat on. "I promised Hopkins a hot cup of tea when he got back." He suggested. Gregson rolled his eyes.

"We ought to _keep_ the kettle on in this weather." He grumbled.

"Then make the rookie do it." Lestrade snapped from inside Gregson's office as Bradstreet grinned and retreated.

Gregson actually looked over his shoulder in surprise. "Really?" He asked.

"I can't feel my hands." They heard Lestrade retort.

"Take an old pair of gloves and cut the fingers out of them." Gregson suggested carelessly, his initial surprise now either hidden or simply extinguished.

"I don't have any old gloves, you know that." Lestrade grumbled. Gregson sighed and beckoned for Holmes and Watson to follow as he stepped back into his office. He walked over to his desk and sat back down in his chair.

Lestrade had a chair on the other side of Gregson's desk and had apparently claimed a corner of the other Inspector's desk as well.

"Company." Gregson informed Lestrade, who looked up and almost sighed as he caught sight of Holmes.

"Mr. Holmes," he greeted the two, "Doctor. May I help you?"

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	62. Chapter 62

"Cells are full." Hopkins grunted with a shiver as detective, doctor, and Inspector blew into Scotland Yard. "You know it's bad when nobody protests."

"They may be starting to catch on." Lestrade murmured as if to himself. "Our man fell into the river." He said more loudly. He did not sound immensely upset by either the accident that had resulted in their quarry falling through the ice or the fact that there had been no way of saving him.

Hopkins deemed it wiser not to ask for clarification and turned to Doctor Watson. "Could I bother you to look at Bradstreet's wrist? He slipped on the ice, and it seems to be hurting him."

Tired and cold as he was, Watson nodded. "Certainly, Hopkins." He said, following the young Inspector to Bradstreet's office.

Jones, working miserably in a corner of the room, ignored the two as they entered the office. Bradstreet looked up and sighed, but it was more in amusement that irritation. He submitted himself to Watson's care without protest.

"Hopkins said you slipped." Watson prodded as he began examining the offered wrist.

A rueful smile crossed Bradstreet's face. "Didn't see the ice until after I'd landed on it." He confessed. "I threw a hand out to catch myself and did."

"Reminds me of this boy I once treated." Watson recalled. "Poor lad fell out of a tree. He threw his arms out, tried to land like a cat would. Broke both arms."

Bradstreet winced in sympathy as Watson continued. "You, however, have gotten off with a minor sprain. If you let it rest and let me wrap it up it should be as good as new in a couple of days."

Bradstreet tried to look affronted and failed miserably at it. "I don't argue with the doctor, remember?" He teased Watson.

The doctor chuckled. "You may be the only Inspector here who doesn't give me a hard time." He agreed. "Hopkins isn't too bad either, actually." He mused. "Lestrade, on the other hand-"

"Gregson wants his coat back." The Inspector in question informed Bradstreet as he paused outside the office's open door. "I would knock if I my hands weren't full." He added.

Inspector Lestrade was standing in the doorway with a steaming cup of something hot in each hand.  
"The door is open." Bradstreet reminded him. "You can just come on in." Lestrade did so, and held out a cup in Watson's direction.

It was a second or two before the doctor realized that Lestrade was offering him the steaming beverage, but when he did he accepted it gratefully.

Lestrade offered the other cup to Jones before making his escape with Gregson's coat folded over his arm.

Watson blinked and turned to Bradstreet. "Did Lestrade jut bring me a drink?" He asked.

Watson's question elicited a burst of laughter from the Inspector. Jones rolled his eyes as Watson's confusion increased. "Lestrade likes you." He said bluntly.

"Pardon?" Watson was sure he had heard wrong, but Bradstreet only laughed harder. "He brought you a drink too." He felt obligated to point out.

Jones muttered something under his breath and went back to his work. Bradstreet managed to collect himself enough to reply. "Jones is a nightmare when he's sick." Jones paused in his work long enough to gesture rudely at Bradstreet, which nearly set him off again.

"It only makes sense to do anything that will make Jones a little less miserable and consequently a little less unpleasant." Bradstreet explained with a smirk. He received a look from Jones, but the miserable Inspector did not actually deny Bradstreet's assertions.

"He took Gregson his coat." Watson tried again.

Jones snorted rudely. "That is a different matter entirely." He declared before going back to his work once more.

"True enough," Bradstreet agreed, "and not something easily explained. But there's no doubt about it, Watson. Lestrade likes you."

Watson had no reply for that.


	63. Chapter 63

A week later the weather was still far too cold for anyone in their right mind to be out and about in. That did not, however, stop Inspector Lestrade from paying Holmes and Watson a visit.

"I wouldn't think anyone would be up to causing much trouble, as nasty as the weather's been." Watson commented as Mrs. Hudson deposited the half frozen Inspector in the sitting room and promised to return shortly with a pot of tea.

"Neither would I," Lestrade grumbled, not so subtly coming to stand by the fireplace, "but we found a half frozen corpse under a bridge last night." He held his hands out toward the fire as he looked to Holmes. "Young thing, barely fourteen. Strangled and left for dead." Lestrade scowled as he curled and uncurled his fingers in the heat "We can't figure out who she is."

Holmes frowned at the Inspector. "And so you came here?" He asked. "Do you expect me to know who she is?"

"I was hoping that if I gave you a description of the girl and her clothing you might be able to gve me an idea of where she might be from." Lestrade retorted. "Hopkins doesn't think she from the area where we found her."

"Hmmm..." Mrs. Hudson's reappearance and consequent fussing over Lestrade delayed any further conversation as she directed him to a seat on the couch, questioned his sanity for being out in this weather, fretted that he was not eating enough, and scolded him for letting himself get sick.

Lestrade, for his part, endured the attentions of the landlady with a good humor; it was common enough for the woman to mother the Yarders if she felt they needed it, and none of them seemed to mind very much.

He did, however, protest that he was not sick. He was rewared with a stern look from Mrs. Hudson. "Then you're going to be." The woman predicted. "When's the last time you were actually warm?" She demanded.

How the woman got away with treating members of Scotland Yard as if they were a bunch of errant children in need of looking after was something neither Holmes nor Watson had figured out, but far from ignoring the question as he would have if almost anyone else had asked, Lestrade merely stifled a growl before answering.

"Last night, when Hopkins dragged me out of bed to look at a body." He informed the woman grumpily.

Mrs. Hudson, remarkable woman that she was, never even blinked. "And you've been out running around since then, Id' wager." She scolded.

"I was inside for most of the day." Lestrade countered. "And for most of last night." He added.

"The furnace still isn't working?" Watson spoke up. "They haven't gotten someone to fix it by now?"

Lestrade barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. "The furnace has needed replacing for years." He admitted. "It's not a priority."

"Not a priority?" Mrs. Hudson was appalled by the statement.

Lestrade shrugged. "It works as long as the weather doesn't get too cold." He explained obligingly.

"They might actually do something about it if Jones didn't get fed up every winter and go take care of it himself. He gets it running again, but it's never more than a temporary solution. Not," he added with some irritation, "that we can ever convince anyone of that fact."

Mrs. Hudson tutted her disapproval as Lestrade turned the conversation away from the Yard's heating difficulties and back to the dead girl.


	64. Chapter 64

"Lestrade's busy." Hopkins said shortly. "Excuse me."

Holmes and Watson watched him go. So did Bradstreet from the wall he was leaning against. He grinned lazily at the two startled visitors.

"Don't mind him, he won't be his normal sunny self until the heat's back on." Bradstreet offered, and Watson belatedly realized that the man in front of them currently wore a rather thick coat.

"They still haven't fixed that?" Watson was shocked. "It's been what, three weeks now?"

Bradstreet shrugged. "Gregson and Lestrade told Jones he wasn't allowed to fix it this time." He explained. "That was a week and a half ago, the day after that snowstorm hit." Watson winced sympathetically.

Holmes returned to the reason for their visit. "Where is Lestrade?" He asked again, and Bradstreet was almost successful in fighting back a chuckle.

"Hopkins told you he was busy," he replied, "and he is. Did you need to see him specifically, or is there something I can do for you?"

"Is he here?" Holmes pressed, and this time Bradsreet did laugh.

"He's here." He assured the detective with a smile. "He's teaching Jones how to swear. The man is definitely not mechanically minded."

"They're fixing the furnace." Holmes realized. Bradstreet nodded.

"I don't know why Jones refuses to drag someone other than Lestrade along whenever he fixes the furnace, but he won't take anyone else with him. It's not a pretty sight, Holmes, and it's probably going to be a while."

Holmes sighed as Gregson came shuffling down the hall complaining that it was warmer outside Scotland Yard than inside. "They're still working on it." He guessed, his expression rather sour. Bradstreet nodded.

"So what changed everyone's mind?" He asked the older Inspector curiously. "I thought we were going to wait them out."

"Have you ever seen Lestrade bring a blanket to work?" Gregson asked, and Bradstreet's eyes widened.

"You're serious." He said a second later.

Gregson nodded and continued toward his office. "Lestrade keeps his fingers out of the way." He tossed back over his shoulder.

"Pardon?" Bradstreet replied, confused. Gregson stopped and doubled back.

"You said you didn't know why Jones always takes Lestrade. He does what Jones tells him, but he also keeps his fingers out of the way." Gregson held up his right hand as he spoke.

Watson and Bradstreet both stared as they realized that the very tip of the Inspector's smallest finger appeared to have been sliced off. Bradstreet looked up at Gregson, who shrugged and lowered his hand.

"Ripped the nail clean off." He offered. "Jones said I was lucky he didn't take the whole finger off." He paused for a moment, remembering, before shaking his head as if to clear it and continuing on his way.

Bradstreet looked a bit uneasy. "I hate it when he gets like that." He muttered. "It's always unsettling when he starts remniscing about the past." He too shook his head, then asked. "Can I help you with something, or are we going to have to disturb Lestrade and Jones?"


End file.
